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-

F OE the second time since his
arrival in Paris that day, Miles
Cresson, of New Orleans, found
that war-time comrades would flee at
the mention of a name. There was
something so sinister in the way they
had stared and made off whenever he
uttered it that the American was
seized with astonishment. It was not
strange, then, that he paid little heed
to the carefree students, who crowded
past on Boulevard St. Michel that
August evening in 1923.

Cresson watched the gray-blue uni¬
form of Captain Emile DeBray until
it had vanished in the crowd, deter¬
mined that he would demand an ex¬
planation, should they meet again.
For insolence had shone in the officer’s
small eyes and in his pasty face as
his back had turned in answer to a
civil question. And that question
concerned the fate of a fellow officer—
Jules Chaumon. It was mystifying.

DeBray, an Alsatian, was both oily
and ingratiating, and it was because
of this that Cresson had disliked him
from the first. The three (Cresson,
DeBray and Chaumon) had been ar¬
tillery students together at Le Valda-
hon in 1914. Cresson was one of those
valiant, impetuous Americans who

took up the cause of Prance in the
beginning. He was the wealthy and
adventurous scion of an old Louisiana
family, with the twinkling, black eyes
of his ancestors; one of those tall,
dark, good-looking chaps one often
meets in the Southland.

If he had ever held a barrier of re¬
serve between himself and DeBray,
Cresson did not know the existence
of this, so far as Chaumon was con¬
cerned. They had been the closest of
friends, drawn together by interests
in common. Jules Chaumon reminded
one of steel encased in velvet, having
the blue eyes and tawny hair of a
viking and yet the gentle features and
intensity of a prophet. Indeed, he
and DeBray were opposites. They
differed as much in appearance as in
tendencies—of the sort that had
caused the stocky Alsatian to fling
away his patrimony over gaming
tables a few days before their paths
had crossed.

Fluency in languages had cemented
a bond between Chaumon and Miles
Cresson, whose accomplishments in
music and art were much the same as
those of the young Frenchman. The
fortunes of war sent them into dif¬
ferent regiments before they had
quite completed training—Cresson to

WEIRD TALES

the defense of Paris; Chaumon and
DeBray to Port Vaux, near Verdun.

Letters, at first, were frequent, but
as the war wore on those from Chau¬
mon ceased abruptly, and efforts to
locate him failed. Cresson, recover¬
ing in a Paris hospital from wounds
received a few days before the armis¬
tice, discovered that Jules Chanmon
was missing in records at French
army headquarters. Further inquiry
at the Invalides disclosed nothing
more than the addresses of his nearest
relatives—a mother and a sister.

Neither could be found, nor did
anyone seem to know just what had
become of them. In Paris, the mansion
of the Chaumons was shuttered and
dark, while at Lisle Adam the crip¬
pled old caretaker of the chateau had
seen none of the family since the war
began. Cresson put further inquiry-
aside and began a long cruise on the
Mediterranean to regain his health.

Upon his return to France, Cresson
made a tour of the battlefields near
Verdun, where he discovered that
Chaumon’s name affected French
army officers in peculiar fashion.
They either turned the subject or
walked away, when he tried to ques¬
tion them. He gradually became con¬
scious that an invisible wall barred
all facts, except that with regard to
Chaumon’s disappearance in 1917,
when the German legions overran
Fort Vaux. If the attitude of the
garrison’s commanders had puzzled
the American, that of DeBray, the
last man questioned in Paris, aroused
hot resentment. For the stocky Al¬
satian, perhaps, was best able to clear
the mystery, and yet had refused.

Cresson pondered over this, as he
walked slowly up the boulevard, until,
at length, bright squares of light from
the terrace of the Caf6 des Trois
Ponts crossed the pavement. He
stopped suddenly, as a voice from the
terrace called his name. He turned
to behold a smallish, well-groomed

man, wearing a close-cropped mus¬
tache, racing after him. The runner
was hatless, and his gait endangered
his spectacles, which dangled from his
waistcoat by a ribbon. A casual ob¬
server might have classed him as an
American college professor on tour,
but to Miles Cresson he was Dr. Ar¬
thur Littlejohn, of New York, scien¬
tist and “spook hunter.”

Dr. Littlejohn, recovering his
breath, looked closely at the younger
man and frowned.

“If I didn’t know better,” he ex¬
claimed, “I’d say you were uncom¬
monly blue for a resident of the Lat¬
in Quarter. You’re worried! I’ll see
you home and try cheering you up in
the bargain. Wait here.”

TXTHEN the scientist emerged from

» r the cafe with his hat, the two
hailed a taxicab and robe in silence
to a secluded hotel in Montparnasse,
a short distance away, where Cresson
maintained his quarters. His apart¬
ment, in fact, might be better
described as a small museum. The
walls of the great living room were
covered with rare paintings, armor,
tapestries and ancient weapons from
the comers of Europe.

Dr. Littlejohn sank into the depths
of an easy chair, an unlighted cigar
between his teeth, noting silently his
host ’s nervousness in lighting a ciga¬
rette. Cresson broke the silence with
the story of Chaumon’s disappear¬
ance, and the unwillingness of French
army circles to discuss it.

“There’s something about all this
that is very mysterious,” declared
Cresson, resting his gaze on a jade
clock high above on the mantel.
“There may be no answer to it, doc¬
tor, but if there is, I feel that you are
the one man able to find it.”

The scientist acknowledged the com¬
pliment with a quick bow, sinking
deeper into the chair, with his elbows
braced on the arms, and the tips of

WHISPERING TUNNELS

his fingers touching. His eyes alone,
peering above the gold rims of his
spectacles, betrayed keen interest.

“What I have to tell you,” Cresson
continued, “occurred in Fort Vaux,
■which lies between Forts Douaumont
and Hardimont, in a circle of strong¬
holds defending Verdun. All told,
there are thirty-six fortresses, some
of them from four to five miles apart.
The whole region is a succession of
bare, desolate hills, scarred and pitted
like the surface of the moon—a laby¬
rinth, honeycombed with death.

“I can tell you, doctor, no living
man knows the extent of that vast,
underground network of tunnels and
passages, linking up the forts. There
are layers of these stone arteries,
which run in every direction, all con¬
nected with innumerable flights of
stairs. The main tunnels branch off
into hundreds of smaller ones, which
lead to countless great rooms, barrack
halls, dungeons and almost bottomless
shafts. Trap-doors and inclines de¬
scend to the bowels of the earth, and
these have doubtless accounted for
many of the men that have attempted
to explore the tunnels, and have never
emerged again. Torches, maps and
compasses seem of little use, for the
armies of the earth could well be
swallowed in the immensity of this

“Three nights ago,” the young
man went on, “I arrived in the little
village of Moncourt, which is about
four miles east of Verdun, on the
Paris-Metz railway and just outside
of Fort Vaux. Rain was pouring
and the road from the station to the
solitary hotel resembled a river of
mud. The inn had been boarded up
and patched in spots where enemy
shells had left their marks during the
war, and I considered myself lucky
in getting a room that was fairly dry.

“I donned dry clothing, and after
a very excellent dinner 1 adjourned
to the buffet for coffee. There were

few persons there, but among these I
recognized an old friend, Major Paul
Fallaise, commander of my battalion
on the Aisne. He appeared greatly
surprized, but overjoyed to see me.
The major had remained in the army,
and for the past two years had been
stationed in Fort Vaux.

“The gloomy fortress had a de¬
pressing effect, he told me, and this
he had attempted to offset by habitu¬
ally strolling into the village of eve¬
nings. Good old Fallaise simply
wouldn’t hear to my staying at the
inn, insisting that I go to Vaux that
night as the guest of the garrison.

“It was really a short walk to the
fort, although the steep incline of the
road made the buttressed entrance
seem more distant than it actually
was. Fallaise dropped no hint as to
the identity of the commander when
he suggested an introduction, and I
received quite a surprize when I
walked into his headquarters. There
I saw a short, active man with promi¬
nent eyes and a bristling mustache,
writing furiously at a desk. He
proved to be Colonel Marcel Dupin,
“Papa” Dupin, as he had been known
at Le Valdahon. “Papa” Dupin
leaped from his chair to give me a
greeting such as only an ecstatic
Frenchman can give. His gestures
were many.

“ ‘Zounds, my dear son!’ he cried,
embracing me. ‘So, you have come
to visit with us? Superb! In the
name of the fort, I welcome you!’

“I laughed and told him that it
was, indeed, a happy surprize to find
so many of my old comrades in one
spot. The evening passed very pleas¬
antly in the garrison elubroom, where
the younger officers crowded around
after dinner, asking eager questions
about Paris, particularly the Folies
Bergjres, Montmartre and the Bois.
All seemed suffering from the mo¬
notony of garrison life, and eager to
talk on any other subject.

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"WHISPERING TUNNELS

closer by inches, as I lay there wait¬
ing. The glow of the fire dimmed
suddenly, and then went out. alto¬
gether, leaving the chamber in inky
blackness.

“A sound like the whirring of
many bats seemed everywhere, filling
both the corridor and the chamber,
where it seemed that a gray, shape¬
less mass was slowly changing outline
and moving in the direction of my
bed. I had just enough strength to
pull the covers over my bead, in a
frantic effort to shut out the sight,
but no sooner bad I done so than
something akin to a chilling blast tore
back the bedclothes. In terror, I per¬
ceived that something aglow with a
pale, phosphorescent fire was hover¬
ing over me: It took definite outline
and then—I saw the face of Jules
Chaumon!

“It bore the pallor of death, but
his large eyes seemed alight with a
gleaming, burning expression of one
who had borne the suffering of the
damned, as they peered beneath the
rim of a trench helmet. His uniform
was that of an artillery captain, and
his boots trod the floor noiselessly as
he passed from my bedside toward the
fireplace, and then to the wall a short
distance to the right. When his hand
touched the stone, a heavy block
loosened and fell crashing to the flags.
His arm groped the hollow space left
in the wall, but he shook his head sad¬
ly and moved away, circling the
chamber.

“My fears left me, for I was sure
that Jules was in some trouble and
needed my help. I arose from bed
and followed him to the anteroom,
but as I stood between the parted cur¬
tains, he turned and sank through the
stone floor. Panic seized me, for now
I was convinced that I had seen an
apparition. I leapt across the cham¬
ber in an effort to escape, but as I
reached the door it closed with a bang.
I saw the key turn and heard the lock
snap to, by what means I do not know.

Again I heard the whisper! A great,
black mass was barring my path, a
foot away, and gazing at me fixedly,
with eyes that were living balls of
flame. A horde of soft, flopping
things struck against my body and
face, and two steely tentacles shot out
from the mass and seized me by the
throat, choking my head backward. I
found myself gazing into the most
horrible human face I have ever seen
—huge, fat, loathsome, with long
fangs in its hideous, yawning mouth,
—and its forehead beaded with
greasy, fetid perspiration. I struck
the thing’s face again and again, and
in a desperate struggle tore my body
free.

“ T MUST have fainted, for I awoke,

-k lying on the flags in the center
of the room, with Major Fallaise
chafing my wrists and neck. He had
found the door wide open, when he
arrived there to summon me to break¬
fast. The major was much concerned
over my haggard appearance and in¬
sisted that I see the garrison physi¬
cian without delay. I objected,—
saying I had suffered merely a slight
indisposition, which would won pass.

“Major Fallaise started violently
when I told him that Jules Chaumon
had visited my chamber. He made
no comment, but wheeled and hurried¬
ly left the room. His attitude was
puzzling. One look about the guest
chamber convinced me that my ex¬
perience had been no dream. The
stone block rested where it had fallen,
on the floor, and the hollow space it
had left in the wall, I found, was
really a secret vault. It appeared to
be empty, but in running my hand
over the bottom, I found a photo¬
graph of a young woman. I did not
examine it closely, but put it into the
pocket of my overcoat.

“I dressed, but was too shaken to
eat the excellent breakfast, served in
the clubroom. I visited Colonel Du-
pin, anxious to find out the history

WEIRD TALES

of the guest chamber, and had
launched into the story of the night
before, when I mentioned the name of
Chaumon. “Papa” Dupin instantly
froze in his attitude, but I knew that
my story had made a profound im¬
pression. He would not permit me
to complete it.

“ ‘My boy,’ he replied, raising his
prominent eyes, ‘do not speak in rid¬
dles, and do not ask irrelevant ques¬
tions. I am very busy this morning,
and must really ask you to excuse me.’

“Thus rebuked, I determined to
leave Port Vaux, then and there; and
I did leave, angry and crestfallen. I
was engaged in packing up my be¬
longings at the inn, in Moncourt,
when a rapping sounded on my door.
I opened it to face Major Fallaise.
My greeting must have been frigid,
for he began an apology at once, pac¬
ing the floor nervously. Twice he ran
to the door, flinging it open suddenly,
as if in fear of eavesdroppers.

“ ‘You knew,’ he asked, ‘that Lieu¬
tenant Mourey, the pleasant young
Breton whom you talked with at din¬
ner last evening, is dead? No? His
body was found in bed this morning,
and that look of horror on his face—
I shall never forget it. Naturally,
finding you on the floor this morning
unnerved me. The whisper—’

“Then followed a tale of strange
happenings in Vaux. The major, his
voice sometimes sinking so low that it
was almost inaudible, told me of the
pledge taken by every member of the
garrison not to reveal these tales out¬
side of the fort. Specters so fright¬
ful had appeared that neither officers
nor men would venture into certain
parts of the fort alone. The tunnels
were shunned, as if the demons of the
universe were centered there.

“Fallaise recalled numbers of the
men, who were found dead in the
plague spots of the fort, apparently
of unseen horrors. Two lieutenants,
he said, had recently gone mad on dif¬
ferent occasions in the guest chamber,

where I had spent the night, under
circumstances that were almost iden¬
tical. In the eyes of both shone the
light of insane terror over something
they had seen and were attempting
to escape, when found crouching and
muttering.

“The guest chamber had been oc¬
cupied by Chaumon and DeBray dur¬
ing the war. Fallaise said he obtained
this information from a chart in the
records. None of the officers now in
the garrison had served with either
of the two men, nor, with the excep¬
tion of the colonel and himself, had
known them. He had merely heard
of Chaumon’s mysterious disappear¬
ance in the German attack and of De-
Bray’s transfer to Paris headquarters
after the armistice. Of what actually
happened in Vaux during the war he
knew nothing, so far as regarded
Chaumon, except that an order from
headquarters forbidding mention of
his name was in effect throughout the

“Fallaise admitted the order was
a strange one and could not recall an
instance where a similar taboo had
been issued. Yes, he had seen the spec¬
ter of (he whispered it) Jules Chau¬
mon. The major regarded that as
strange, because there was never any
record of his death. Others who had
spent the night in the guest chamber
had seen the apparition, but other
things encountered there at the same
time had frightened them too badly to
observe it in particular. Fallaise told
of seeing it once in the tunnels, and
another time in the destroyed wing of
the fortress.

“ ‘It was not my intention,’ the
major said in bidding me good-bye at
the station, ‘to have you spend the
night in the guest chamber, but offi¬
cials arriving unexpectedly from
Paris left me no choice. There was
no other room, and I profoundly re¬
gret that you suffered such an experi¬
ence. I shall see you in Paris soon—
I hope.’ He shook my hand through

WHISPERING TUNNELS

a car window, and stood gazing at the
train as it pulled out.

“Now, doctor,” Cresson concluded,
“you know the whole story. I ar¬
rived in Paris today, and walked the
boulevards for hours before I could
make up my mind to come here. The
matter is a complete mystery, to my
way of thinking, but, of course, you
might not face any difficulty in un¬
raveling it. Was it Chaumon in the
flesh, or was it a phantom, which I
saw in the fortress?”

Littlejohn reflected for several min¬
utes before making a reply.

“There is no doubt in my mind,”
he said, “that you saw the specter of
Jules Chaumon. But in doing so you
ran afoul of other phenomena, far
more dangerous than apparitions.
You spent the night in one of the
worst haunted spots in Europe, and
it is fortunate that you emerged as
safely as you did. The black mass
you describe may have been either an
elemental, or an intelligence that
never existed in human flesh: in
plain words, a demon.

“Now, I think I am not far wrong
when I say that the specter of Chau¬
mon would have shown you the key
to this mystery had it not been inter¬
fered with by a host of powerful en¬
tities, which must have literally filled
your bedchamber. These elemental
forces must be exorcised, or the fate
of Jules Chaumon will never be
known. But such a step must be un¬
dertaken by a trained psychic, be¬
cause anyone else would be overpow¬
ered. It is no wonder you fainted.”

“Will you undertake this, doc¬
tor?” Cresson asked, leaning eager¬
ly forward from his chair. “I feel
it my duty to go on with my search
for Jules.”

“Yes,” replied the scientist, “I
will do so. First, I must think the
matter out and map out a course of
action. I cannot say just when I shall
be ready.”

“I’ll wait here in Paris until con¬
venient,” said Cresson, thanking Lit¬
tlejohn. “Ugh! It seems that I can
hear the whisper of the tunnels in
my dreams—”

“By the way,” exclaimed Little¬
john, suddenly, “let me ask what you
did with the photograph you found
in that guest chamber?”

The younger man emitted a low
whistle of surprize.

“By George!” he replied in a
startled tone. “I had forgotten about
that!”

He stepped quickly to his wardrobe
and lifted a tweed overcoat from the

“Here it is!” he exclaimed, draw¬
ing forth a mud-stained photograph.

“Let me see it,” the scientist re¬
quested, quietly.

Cresson passed over the portrait in
silence, waiting for Littlejohn to
speak. The doctor examined the like¬
ness minutely.

"This is one of the most beautiful
women I have seen anywhere,” he
mused, admiringly. “I wonder wbat
she has to do with the haunted for¬
tress. Hello, here’s an inscription!”

Both men, bending over the photo¬
graph, saw written in a lower corner:
“To My Dearest Jules, from Audrey
—Paris, March 16, 1917.”

“Three weeks before the fort was
taken!” exclaimed Cresson. “I won¬
der who the original could be? Or
what she could have meant to Jules
Chaumon?”

He glanced at the doctor, expect¬
antly.

“These are among the things we
must find out,” Littlejohn answered.
“But I think, as you do, there is a
connection somewhere. Did you visit
the Bureau of Secret Documents,
when you made inquiry at the Inval-
ides?”

The scientist peered over his glasses
as he asked the question.

“No, doctor,” the younger man re¬
turned. “I visited only army head-

12

WEIRD TALES

quarters. I didn’t know of the bureau
then. I’ll go there tomorrow.”

T HE two Americans crossed the
great square of the Invalides the
next morning, mounting the broad
steps of the War Ministry. Once with¬
in the portals of the Bureau of Secret
Documents, both sent their cards to
the commandant and were presently
shown before one of the chief inspec¬
tors—a grizzled lieutenant-colonel.
The inspector bit his lip and motioned
for silence, when they announced the
nature of their quest.

“Zounds!” exclaimed the officer,
incredulously. “Can it be possible
you speak of Captain Jules Chau-
mon, who was once stationed in Fort

His eyes grew wide, as Cresson nod¬
ded affirmatively. He pressed a but¬
ton on his desk, and when the chief
clerk responded, commanded that cer¬
tain records be brought before him.

“It is forbidden to mention the
name of Captain Chaumon in the
military service, except, of course, up¬
on official inquiry here,” said the in¬
spector, opening one of the massive
books of records, when the clerk had
closed the door behind him. “Are you
not aware, my friends, that Captain
Chaumon is posted as a high traitor to
France 1”

Cresson almost leapt from his chair
in astonishment.

“A traitort” he shouted. “That
cannot be! Chaumon was one of the
bravest and best of men. He loved

His voice broke off helplessly.
“Nevertheless, monsieur,” contin¬
ued the inspector, placing his thumb
on a page, “here is the order. He is
charged with delivering Vaux into the
enemy’s hands on June 7, 1917. It
was a close secret, known inside the
fort alone, that the French command
had prepared for eventualities in
blowing open the casemates of Vaux.

This was done to establish communica¬
tion with the outside trenches, of
course. But this information, to¬
gether with orders, maps and plans,
was turned over to the enemy by a
Frenchman, in the fort. And wit¬
nesses say this Frenchman was Jules
Chaumon. ’ ’

“Impossible!” Cresson burst out.
“There must have been a mistake.”

The southerner turned his eyes to
Littlejohn, who shook his head
gravely.

“But no, messieurs,” insisted the
officer. “We are sure that the evi¬
dence was correct. We are sure that
Captain Chaumon is now hiding in
Germany. Where, we do not know.
If he had been made a prisoner, would
he not have returned to France? For
now the last of the war prisoners have
been exchanged. If he had died, de¬
fending the fort, the enemy would
have buried him according to rank.

“Chaumon has never been pro¬
claimed a traitor in orders of the
French army, because such a step
might prevent his ever being cap¬
tured. Otherwise, he might think it
safe to return. Instead of a proclama¬
tion, the French government has
taken an unusual course—banished
his name in army circles. Of course,
messieurs, he still holds his rank in
the army, and will continue to do so
until proven guilty by trial.

“The strangest thing, my friends,”
the inspector went on, “is the fact
that no trace of Captain Chaumon
has ever been found. Our bureau
men have scoured Europe without
avail, and, doubtless, he is carefully
concealed.”

“Do not forget, monsieur,” Cresson
interrupted, ‘ ‘ that this is but a theory.
Why, Chaumon was a tiger for cour¬
age! Would such a man place gold
above his country?”

‘‘Sucre! I do not know,” replied
the officer, with an eloquent gesture.
“One of the main witneses before an
investigating committee was a fellow

WHISPERING TUNNELS

officer, Captain DeBray, who actually
saw Chaumon pass papers to a spy!”

“DeBray!” exclaimed Cresson, in¬
credulously. “Why, monsieur, this
officer was Chaumon’s friend!”

He broke off, recalling the odd be¬
havior of that officer on Boulevard St.
Michel the evening before.

“Exactly,” returned the inspector:
“his friend! That is why the evidence
is so overwhelming. DeBray was re¬
luctant enough, to be sure, but coun¬
try is above friendship, messieurs.
However, if there is nothing else—.”

“There is something else, my col¬
onel,” said Littlejohn, “about Cap¬
tain Chaumon’s mother and sister.
Could you tell me anything about
them?”

The little scientist had spoken for
the first time, and his keen gaze was
now riveted upon the Frenchman.

“Ah, yes,” answered the inspector.
‘ ‘ They are living somewhere in Paris,
but I do not know the address. The
family estate was in the name of Jules
Chaumon, as the male heir, and this
was confiscated by the government of
France, as is, of course, usual in the
case of suspected traitors. For the
sake of his mother and sister, I, per¬
sonally, am glad there was no public
proclamation. It is really tragic, this
eviction of Madame and Mademoiselle
Chaumon from their homes. I recall
seeing them here, when they appeared
before the investigators.”

Cresson started, recalling the dark¬
ened mansions and the disappearance
of the two women.

“Would this portrait describe
either of the two ladies?” asked Lit¬
tlejohn, extending the photograph to
the officer.

The Frenchman seized it and
turned the likeness to the light.

“Sacref” exclaimed the officer. “It
is she! It is the daughter, his sister.
Mademoiselle Audrey, I believe. But,
messieurs, I have told you all that I
know. I must now beg you to excuse
me, for I have a conference soon.”

The inspector shook the hands of
both Americans in turn, as they
thanked him and departed.

The two men agreed that a search
for the two women would be necessary
in discussing the new angles of the
case. At the Caf6 des Trois Ponts
they questioned several of the waiters,
Cresson giving them a description of
Captain DeBray. All knew him as a
frequenter of the place, usually dining
there in the early evening, and always

“One thing that I can do,” Cres¬
son told Littlejohn, “ is to watch Cap¬
tain DeBray. Evidently this fellow
has unlimited money, according to the
waiters, and is spending it, too. I’ll
shadow him, doctor, for it is just pos¬
sible that wine has loosened his
tongue. If he has talked—.”

Cresson’s eyes conveyed his mean-

“A most excellent idea,” Littlejohn
agreed. “In the meantime, I’ll map
out other work we have to do.”

The two separated.

C RESSON, in the cafe that evening,
was careful that DeBray did not
discover his presence. His table was
screened by a latticework of vines,
and it was behind this that the Ameri¬
can saw his uniformed quarry swag¬
ger in. When DeBray made his exit,
the American trailed behind him like
a wraith, from the boulevards to the
narrower streets of the Latin Quar¬
ter. He saw the Alsatian light a
cigarette and then enter a gray stone
apartment building. Cresson arrived
at the entrance just as his quarry
stepped into the lift.

The Louisianan darted softly to a
stairway behind the shaft, and
crouched against the wall, where he
could command a view of the hall.
Twenty minutes elapsed, when the si¬
lence was broken by the whir of the
lift machinery. He heard the car de¬
scending, and voices—a man’s gruff
tones and the modulated ones of a

WEIRD TALES

m II s fll?

WHISPERING TUNNELS

15

penings in Port Vaux, nor of his visit
to the Invalides.

"His letters seemed to break off,
suddenly,” the Louisianan concluded,
“and I never heard from him again.
No one seems to know just what hap¬
pened to Jules, after the Germans
captured Port Vaux.”

Madame Chaumon was no longer
able to keep back the tears. It was
tragic to behold the grief of these two
gentlewomen and their struggle for
composure. At length, with an ef¬
fort, Madame Chaumou spoke.

“You know,” she said, “that he
was accused of delivering information
to the enemy, which resulted in the
capture of the fortress! Accused of
selling La Belle France —his country
—to the Germans! Accused, I say,
vilely and falsely, of being a traitor!
Believe me, messieurs, when I say that
my fine, noble Jules could never be
guilty of that. He died fighting for
Prance. I feel it And oh, if I could
but clear his name, I would willingly
lay down my life!”

“You have had much to bear,” said
Cresson, gravely, “and both Dr. Lit¬
tlejohn and I are anxious to clear the
name of Jules Chaumon. Of course,
seven years have passed since the
enemy captured Port Vaux, and time
may have destroyed the proof we seek.
We are determined, however, to leave
nothing undone toward clearing up
the mystery and restoring your
estate.”

“Oh, monsieur,” said Madame
Chaumon, earnestly, “the estate mat¬
ters not. It is the honor of my only
son that I wish to clear. I did not
dream that my Jules had an enemy
in the world, until Captain DeBray, a
man who pretended to be his friend,
ruthlessly accused him of treachery.
Oh, messieurs, that man! He cares
little for the suffering of a mother and
a sister. Their gratitude will go with
you in your quest.”

T HE Americans left the apartment,
filled with a deep sympathy for
both mother and daughter, planning
speed in their search. In the two
weeks which followed, they were al¬
most daily visitors, and so eloquent
that finally they overcame Madame
Chaumon’s objection to appearing in
quiet portions of the boulevards. The
four would steal away to quaint res¬
taurants and theaters off the beaten

Dr. Littlejohn left for Moncourt,
after winding up pressing scientific
reports in Paris. He promised to wire
Cresson in ease there were develop¬
ments in his plan, parts of which he
declined to reveal. He merely asked
the younger man to hold himself in
readiness, should he be needed.

“I should like merely to look over
the ground in my own way,” he told
Cresson on departure. “When my
investigation carries me inside the
fort, I shall call for you. In the mean¬
time, address me at the inn.”

A week after the doctor had gone,
Cresson sat alone with Audrey Chau¬
mon in the Luxembourg, listening in
stunned silence while she told him of
her engagement to Captain DeBray.

"It is for mother’s sake alone,” she
said sadly, “that I have promised to
wed this man. Won’t you believe me,
my dear friend, when I tell you that
it is I who make this sacrifice!”

She turned appealingly to the
southerner, who was plainly per-

“Do you love him, mademoisellef”
asked Cresson, earnestly. “I cannot
believe that you do. Nor do I under¬
stand your reason for marriage with
the accuser of your brother. Surely
your mother does not wish this! Be
frank with me, Audrey.”

Cresson was unaware that he had
addressed her by her first name. She
toyed with her handkerchief in con-

“My friend, I despise him,” she
said, feelingly. “Yet I have made

WEIRD TALES

mother believe that I love him. It is
only because she loves me that she
would permit it. Mother is unaware
of the bargain—DeBray’s promise to
restore the estate in her name after
the ceremony. The wedding is to take
place two weeks from today. The
banns have been published, and alas,
I must go through with it.”

Cresson now realized the nobleness
of her sacrifice, and the thought of it
made him turn his head and stare de¬
jectedly at the ground. When he
glanced again in her direction, Au¬
drey was weeping softly, bitterly, her
whole body shaken with emotion. The
sight aroused in him that tender sym¬
pathy that all men have for distressed
womankind. He longed to take her
into his arms, to comfort her as he
would a child, yet he restrained the
impulse, knowing the utter futility of
it. Both attempted to hide the tur¬
moil in their hearts by affecting a
mask of gayety, on the return home,
succeeding most miserably.

Cresson reached his study in a state
of dejection. He turned the key slow¬
ly in the lock, and stopped suddenly.
Beneath the door was the yellowed
edge of a telegram, delivered in his
absence. He stooped to pick it up,
and saw that it was from Littlejohn.
It read:

“Come. Expect you Moncourt to¬
morrow/'

That was all, but it was enough
to busy the southerner with the pack¬
ing of his bag.

TT WAS well into the following
-I- morning when Cresson stepped on
to the station platform in Moncourt.
He found Littlejohn waiting with a
carriage, and together they drove to
the inn. The scientist cautioned the
younger man that a short nap might
be necessary before undertaking the
work laid out that evening. Cresson
awoke in the late afternoon to find
Littlejohn studying a map of the for¬

tress and the known portion of the
tunnels.

Littlejohn, laying the map aside,
gave details of his plan. He explained
that he would begin work that night
in the haunted guest chamber of the
fort, alone, because he did not wish to
expose anyone else to danger. Cres¬
son objected vigorously, declaring
that he would take chance for chance
with the scientist. Littlejohn glanced
at him admiringly.

“That’s what I call grit,” he said,
slowly. “Not one man in a thousand
would go back into that room, after an
experience such as yours.”

It was useless to attempt dissuasion,
and Littlejohn turned the subject as
they walked to Vaux in the waning
light of the afternoon. The rays of
the sinking sun bathed a desolate
scene of pitted hills and scarred ra¬
vines, which were crowned by the for¬
tress of Vaux, lighting the low, rakish
ramparts a weird red, enhancing the
blackness of their shadows. Fallaise
met them a short distance from the
entrance, and the three remained in
discussion several minutes before go¬
ing on. The major seemed paler, more
anxious and thinner, it seemed to
Cresson, than when they had seen each
other last. They listened closely as
Littlejohn pointed out the necessity
of keeping his and Cresson’s arrival
as nearly secret as possible.

The two dined with Fallaise that
evening, apart from others. The ma¬
jor, in a low voice, told them that two
men had died and three others were
hopelessly insane of terror over un¬
seen things within the past week.
These tragedies took place on differ¬
ent nights, he said, but on each, those
in the fortress had plainly heard the
whisper.

“The whisper of the tunnels, mon¬
sieur,” said tie major, his face ashen.

Fallaise was intensely interested in
the experiment, but declared that not
all of the world’s gold could persuade

WHISPERING TUNNELS

17

him to spend a night in the guest
chamber, even with others. It was
plain that the major’s experience dur¬
ing his two years’ assignment to the
garrison command had shaken him
tragically. He bore up only because
of the expected transfer; a removal
from Vaux to a place where there
were neither tunnels nor whispers.

Littlejohn again endeavored to
show Cresson the danger that awaited
any one except a trained psychic in
coping with unseen forces. The
younger man, however, refused to be
swayed by this argument.

"Many of these tunnels were built
before Napoleon’s time,” said the
scientist, “when black magic raged in
portions of Europe. Today, there are
persons in France, adept in the art of
producing innate intelligences more
terrible than the monster created in
the story of Frankenstein. These
whispering tunnels and mysterious
deaths and insanity among men of the
fort may be due to some curse placed
on its members by a vengeful sorcerer
long ago, one who was, in some way,
harmed in this place. Such curses may
rage for hundreds of years, after the
death of him who called them into
being, unless dispelled by a powerful
exorcist.”

Dr. Littlejohn’s face grew grave as
he concluded.

“Keep this in mind, Miles, my
boy,” the scientist cautioned, “and
abide by it. Don’t give way to fear
in that chamber tonight. If you feel
yourself being overcome, fight it—
fight it with all the strength of your
will. Do as I tell you, and ask no
questions. There is danger enough
for both of us, if the forces are of
great power. If one gives way, under
such circumstances, anything may re¬
sult—insanity, or even death.”

The three stood in the corridor just
outside the guest room, listening, as
a faint sound vibrated through the
hush of the corridors, slowly rising

and falling, and then diminishing. It
seemed faint and far away, deep below
the fortress at times, at others filling
the corridors about them with a soft
and swishing subtleness.

“The whisper!” breathed Fallaise,
his eyes terror-stricken, as he strained
his ears with an intentness that stif¬
fened his entire frame. He turned
his haunted gaze to his companions
only when the sound had ceased alto-

The major remained with the two
Americans but a short time, and re¬
proached himself on departure that
he had permitted them to occupy this
deserted portion of the fortress even
for a night.

TAR. LITTLEJOHN locked the

^ door and gazed about the large,
irregular chamber, noting silently
the long-drawn-out shadows, which
seemed to take their rise in the corner
and creep across the floor. Nor did
he fail to observe the shadow above
his head—a hovering mist, midway
between the high ceiling and the floor.
It was the omen, regarded by psy¬
chics as the certain sign of a spectral
presence. The scientist drew his elec¬
tric torch and set himself to “feel
after” what was really wrong with
the room, while Miles Cresson re¬
mained seated before the log fire,
which had been kindled earlier in the
evening.

As Littlejohn passed slowly around
the walls, he gradually gathered im¬
pressions : very unpleasant ones.
These seemed worst in the anteroom
of pepper-box shape, where a sensa¬
tion of utter loathing and sickness of
soul swept over him. He decided that
someone in the chamber, though un¬
seen by himself or Cresson, was watch¬
ing every movement. Littlejohn gazed
between the parted curtains for sev¬
eral minutes, then walked to the fire¬
place to face the southerner.

“Sense anything, unusual, Miles 1”
he asked, wiping his spectacles.

18

WEIRD TALES

“Feel awfully peculiar, doctor;
can’t say why,” was the young man’s
reply.

“Keep a cool head, son,” advised
Littlejohn. “We’re in for a night
of it—and no mistake. Don’t cross
the center of the floor. If you find it
necessary to move, walk around close
to the walls. For in the center of a
place such as this, a malignant entity
is always most powerful—at the walls
it is weakest.”

Except the flickering shadows, the
two men saw nothing in the next two
hours. It was well past midnight
when both heard the whisper, faint
at first, but gradually increasing in
tone, until it became almost a roar in
the corridor outside. They exchanged
significant glances and steeled them¬
selves for an ordeal.

Without warning, the locked door
swung wide and a rush of icy air filled
the chamber. The gasping roar of air
currents deafened them; the lamp was
blown out, its flame vanishing in a

“Keep your back to the wall!”
shouted the scientist, hurling aside his
deadened electric torch, and flinging
Cresson back against the masonry.

The fire dimmed, as it had done on
the previous occasion, and the whir¬
ring and flopping of unseen creatures
raced about the high ceiling. A long
drawn wail, rising to a shriek, pervad¬
ed the chamber, and the fire went out
altogether, leaving the room in dark¬
ness. Something immense seemed
filling the room, something violently
hostile and terrible. Globes of green¬
ish blue light floated through the air
and bowled over on the floor, and the
fetid breath of slobbering things blew
against the faces and hands of the
Americans. The strangling of dying
humans seemed to issue from the ante¬
room, now lit with a pale, ghastly
light.

The immense entity was coming
nearer. They could feel the approach.

inch by inch, of something that threat¬
ened to overwhelm them. Suddenly
Littlejohn made a mystic sign and
pronounced three words in an un¬
known tongue. He ran rapidly around
in a wide circle, scattering a powdered
substance about the center of the
room, where the malignant intelli¬
gence hovered. When he reached the
starting point again, he stepped for¬
ward, pouring a drop of liquid from
an odd-shaped vessel of brass, drawn
from his pocket.

The circle sprang into flame, light¬
ing the chamber with a blood-red
glow. Littlejohn’s eyes glittered
straight into something ahead, and his
whole being seemed transformed as he
drew himself erect and poised. His
arm circled his head with the brass
vessel, as he leapt to the edge of the
flaming hoop, reciting a staccato

“Appear!” the scientist screamed.
“Appear! In the name of the Crea¬
tor, I command you to appear!”

A black cloud seemed to fill the
center of the red circle. Suddenly,
both men saw it. A great, shapeless
creature was taking the form of a
man, so tall that the head was bent
against the ceiling. Two burning,
baleful eyes were fixed on the pair, as
a snarling issued from its great black
mouth, lined with long, jagged teeth.
The creature’s body was covered with
scales; its powerful arms and toes
were armed with long, razorlike claws.
Littlejohn steeled his will, to prevent
the thing’s efforts to overcome him
with the noxious stench it emitted.
It was the beginning of a deadlock of
wills, which lasted for minutes in that
room of damp stone.

Cresson saw the doctor, like a sor¬
cerer of old, advance toward the
thing, his voice rising and falling,
chanting the lines of a Latin incanta¬
tion. The thing retreated a few feet,
only to redouble its efforts to close in
on the two men. Littlejohn made the

WHISPERING TUNNELS

19

sign of the cross, stamping his feet as
he advanced, bidding the entity be¬
gone in the name of the Father, the
Son and the Holy Ghost. There was
a wail and a sucking noise as it van¬
ished like a flash through the curtains
of the anteroom. The door slammed
shut and locked; the fire suddenly
leapt into blaze again, and the lamp
relit with a clear, steady ray. The
flaming circle died out.

Cresson had fainted. Littlejohn
ran to his side, as he recovered, stag¬
gering weakly into a chair. The south¬
erner was deadly pale, and for a few
minutes unable to speak. Littlejohn
mopped his brow and stood with his
back toward the fire.

“It has gone out of the room,” he
said at length, “but it may return
any minute. Be on your guard! It
is an entity of great power and has
not yet completely taken shape. There
is no doubt in my mind about it being
an elemental freed by some powerful
magician in olden times, and set rag¬
ing by this bloody battleground in
the late war. Undoubtedly black art
was practised in this very room. You
must fight against being drawn into
the tunnels—for the chances are you
would never emerge.”

The scientist flung himself into a
chair, but as he did so, the door
opened violently, and again the room
was plunged into darkness. Little¬
john placed his back against the wall,
but to his dismay, Cresson ran to the
center of the chamber, striking and
shouting.

‘ ‘ Get away! Get away! I tell you,
get away!” he cried.

The young man fought like one
possessed, but suddenly his voice
changed into a booming, reverberating
bass, which filled the atmosphere with
echoes. It sounded now in a low deep
chuckle. Above him, Littlejohn saw
the round spots of flame that were
the creature’s eyes.

“Hail, Master!” spoke Cresson, in
deep Flemish. “Hail, all-powerful
Prince of Darkness. Lucifer! ’ ’

The tones were not his, the scientist
noted, as the rumbling voice trailed
off into unintelligible gibberings.

Littlejohn forgot his own safety,
and rushed to draw the southerner
back. Too late! With a wild shriek,
Cresson disappeared at top speed
through the door, which slammed shut
before Littlejohn could follow. He
stood still, as steely claws sought his
neck; he drove these back with the
force of his thought. There came to the
scientist the realization that Cresson
had been snatched from the room by
a lesser force, while the greater was
centering its power on him.

Again he threw out his will, quick¬
ly drawing from his vest a golden
crucifix, holding it aloft, as he began
the ancient rites of exorcism. As he
prayed, he could feel the power of the
entity growing weaker and weaker,
until at last it dispelled itself as the
distant bugles heralded the coming of
day. He concluded his prayer with
the benediction, convinced that the
evil intelligence had vanished from
the fort forever.

L ITTLEJOHN’S first thought was
of Cresson, as he passed from the
chamber. Instinct guided him along
the passageway and down dark flights
of steps to the labyrinth below, where
the whisper sounded faintly in the
tunnels. His echoing steps beat a
straight course over the never-ending
path of moldy flagstones, until at
length a white patch of light glim¬
mered in the distance ahead. It
proved to be a breach in the tunnel,
overlooking the destroyed portion of
the fort.

The scientist recovered his balance
with an effort, as he stumbled over the
unconscious form of Cresson, lying in
the opening. He made a hasty ex¬
amination of the southerner’s body,
but found no wounds beyond bruises

mi§M Hi

mmMWmmm

SSSt**-- Si3~s™g

WHISPERING TUNNELS

21

followed its length back into the fort.
They found that the wire ran up a
flight of stairs, which ended flush
against the ceiling. Pallaise put his
shoulder against the vaulted roof and
pushed upwards. Suddenly an entire
section of rock lifted, and the little
group emerged into the anteroom of
the guest chamber. It was a trap¬
door, the existence of which was un¬
suspected in the command. The wire,
they found, was attached to a blasting
battery resting on the top step.

Pallaise departed in haste to in¬
form Colonel Dupin of the discovery.
Littlejohn, in the meantime, led the
group back into the tunnel and de¬
scended dark stairways, listening in¬
tently to the sound of the whisper,
which gradually became nearer. The
descent carried them to a depth which
cobwebs attested had not been sound¬
ed in years. The whisper had become
a roar as they reached the bottom
tunnel, leaving the men in a state of

Littlejohn started exploration of
the deep tunnel, when the fears of the
men had subsided. The sound seemed
to issue loudest behind an iron door,
leading off the passage. It took the
combined efforts of the seven men to
budge the door, after the rusted bolt
had been removed. When it finally
slid open, a blinding cloud of steam
overwhelmed the little group in the
passage, and a hissing sound that was
almost deafening issued from the
darkness beyond the door. Littlejohn
returned to the entrance, thrusting
his electric torch inside. At first he
could see nothing, but as the hissing
gradually ceased, the vapors lifted
sufficiently to reveal the lower por¬
tion of a great chamber. He sprang
back with an exclamation.

“A geyser!” he shouted to the men.
“After all, the whisper of the tunnels
has a logical explanation. There is a
crater inside, whose bottom is lined
with skeletons. There must be hun¬
dreds of them whitening down there.

Unquestionably, this pit was a place
of execution a hundred years ago,
where living men were boiled to death
by the geyser.”

Littlejohn ordered the door closed,
and told the soldiers to follow.

In one of the corridors, branching
from the tunnel, the scientist discov¬
ered dozens of dungeons, containing
rusted iron rings, manacles and
chains. Rotted clothing on the flag¬
stones gave mute testimony that hu¬
man beings had been imprisoned here.
In three of the larger dungeons there
were racks, screws, burning-irons and
other implements of torture, but the
most important evidence of the dread¬
ful scenes enacted here, Littlejohn
found in one of the smaller cells. His
torch had swept about the interior,
and had fallen upon an inscription in
Flemish, scrawled into the stone wall.
Translated, it read as follows:

I, Guilbert Savannes, of the Commune of

torture by Louis, the king, for the practise
of sorcery. Sorcery, so be it. I leave this
dungeon to join Lucifer, my master, in the

“Savannes!” exclaimed Littlejohn
to himself. “One of Europe’s most
infamous devil-worshipers. Humph,
don’t wonder that King Louis and
his court came to grief, with so power¬
ful a curse cast on them!”

The scientist drew away from the
dungeon, satisfied that both the curse
and the whisper of the fortress had
been explained. The party ascended
to the upper tunnels of Vaux, where
it disbanded.

T ITTLEJOHN found Pallaise and
/ Cresson awaiting him in the guest
chamber. They listened breathlessly
as he told the story of his discovery.

“It can readily be seen,” he ex¬
plained, “that the geyser below is the

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WHISPERING TUNNELS

the outside. Men below were trapped
like rats!”

His excitement increased as the
descent down the flight of stairs re¬
vealed two other traps, similarly
bolted. When these were opened,
Cresson, seizing a powerful electric
torch, sprang down the moldy stone

“Littlejohn!” he shouted. "It is
the same room—the very same that I
escaped from, the morning you found

The doctor with difficulty restrained
Cresson, for the latter’s excitement
had gradually increased as the two
had begun the descent with Fallaise
and a group of six men. The electric
torches of the Americans flashed over
the vaulted ceiling, accentuating the
shadows and festoons of cobwebs that
hung from the stones like long fingers.
Far away the searchers heard the
rushing of water, which Cresson had
described in relating his experience,
and it seemed to the group that the
sound arose from under the flagstones
in a sort of indescribable roar. Sud¬
denly their torches shone on a massive
iron tripod, rising from the center of
the chamber.

“ The flood gate control! ” Fallaise
exclaimed in awed tones. “The lev¬
ers are down, and yet neither maga¬
zine nor tunnels were ever flooded!
The men were thought killed by shells,
which destroyed this part of the fort,
but this now shows that they arrived

The officer was plainly puzzled, ex¬
plaining that the machinery was one
of the fort’s most powerful weapons
of defense before the wing was de¬
stroyed. At all times, he said, a detail
of men stood in readiness to turn the
waters of the Meuse into either the
powder magazine or the tunnels, to
render them useless to the enemy.

A horror-stricken exclamation came
from Cresson, as the light of his
torch fell upon the glint of dull gold
from a huddled object on the flag¬

stones. Drawing near, he perceived it
to be a skeleton in the uniform of a
French officer. A trench helmet lay
beside the body, and a short distance
away, an overcoat. The sight made
members of the party gasp. Cresson
stooped swiftly to examine the identi¬
fying bracelet about the bony wrist,
leaping back with a gasp.

"Jules Chaumon!” he cried, reel¬
ing away from the spot.

A shout from one of the soldiers
told that another skeleton had been
found. Near it lay a third, and not
far away, others, until the remains of
thirty-three soldiers had been counted.
Bending over the remains of Jules
Chaumon, Cresson gave a startled
groan, which brought the others run¬
ning to his side. He pulled a sheaf of
papers from the skeleton’s belt and
held it aloft.

“Send for the colonel,” he com¬
manded.

A soldier raced away and soon
“Papa” Dupin arrived in the flood
vault, excited and puffing.

“Bring the papers to my office,”
the colonel ordered, indicating that
the two Americans were to follow
him. “You, Fallaise, post a guard
here, and see that no one enters. No
one—mind ycru!”

He acknowledged the major’s sa¬
lute, and trotted away with Cresson
and Littlejohn at his heels.

/~vNCE inside his office, “Papa”

' Dupin locked the door and
turned up the flame of the lamp. The
three drew their ehairs together, as
the colonel glanced through the docu¬
ments hurriedly. He uttered a cry of
amazement.

“My friends,” he said, slowly, “the
mystery of Fort Vaux’s betrayal is
solved! Jules Chaumon was no
traitor, poor fellow, but a hero! He
and thirty-three others were sent into
eternity by another Frenchman, a
traitor, who blew up the fort’s maga-

CROSSED

LINES

L by Robert G. Bowie
r - and Robinson H.Harsh

1 WAS lying in bed [thus began
the tale told me by my fellow
traveler, in the smoking car of
the train]. The only other occupant
of the room was a young woman in
the cap and conventional costume of
a nurse. Prom this, I promptly and
rightly assumed that I was in a hos¬
pital ; but to determine why this
should be, I was considerably at a
loss. My head ached; in fact, I ached
more or less all over, and my thoughts
did not collect themselves readily. A
few minutes before (so I thought) I
had been walking along the street, in
the best of health. I had never been
a victim of heart trouble or any other
kind of attacks. I had never fainted
in my life. With the exception of
once, years before, when I had been
somewhat banged up in a football
scrimmage, I had never been sick. I
was ruggedly healthy and considered
myself above all things normal. Why,
then, this?

Of a sudden, it came to me: the
dimly lit, seemingly deserted street—
not quite deserted, either; for now X
remembered that as I started across
it, there was another man coming to¬
ward me from the opposite side. Then,
an automobile, without any warning,
almost silently, had swung round the
corner. I leapt to avoid it. The

other pedestrian leapt also, as ill luck
would have it, to the same side as I.
We collided, and before we could re¬
cover, were struck. Beyond or after
that, I could remember nothing.

“What time is it?’’ I asked of the
girl.

“Ten-twenty,” she answered.

“Ten-twenty! Ten-twenty, did you
say? Why, how can that be? It was
after 11 when—when it happened.”

“You have been unconscious until
just a little while ago. It is not sur¬
prizing that you have not realized the
passage of time.”

Of course! What a bonehead I was
not to have noticed it before! It was
daylight. Ten-twenty a. m.! Nearly
twelve hours!

Rising upon my elbow, in spite of
my bruises, “What day is this?” I
shot at her.

“Wednesday, the fourteenth.”

“Wednesday? Ten-twenty? Good
Lord! There’s a directors’ meeting
today. I must get out of here, at

“You cannot leave today,” said
the girl, calmly, and with what she
evidently intended to be finality.

“Cannot? Why not? What is the
extent of the damage?”

26

WEIRD TALES

“There are no bones broken, but
you must wait and talk to Dr. Came-

“Piffle! Oh, well, tell Dr. What’s-
his-name to come here, immediately.
My time is valuable—especially this
morning.”

She looked at me in a manner
doubtless intended to convey that con¬
tempt was not altogether undiluted
by pity for my abysmal ignorance and
informed me that Dr. Cameroon was
not one to be called hither and thither
at the nod of anyone—certainly not
an unknown recently picked up out
of the gutter. In fact, I gathered that
Dr. Cameron was quite a personage,
in this particular circle at least, not
to be spoken or thought of lightly.
Well versed in the t tency of the tip¬
ping system, I looked about for my
pocketbook; but not seeing either it
or any of my clothes, I was compelled
to substitute a promise of future per¬
formance.

Her chin went up in scorn; whether
at the ignominious suggestion or at
my inability to make it more imme¬
diately tangible I am unable to say:
but perhaps it had some effect, after
all. I did not, indeed, succeed in ob¬
taining an audience with the poten¬
tate himself. Some exceedingly im¬
portant event, whose nature did not
particularly interest me at the time,
had, it appeared, called him away,
and it was impossible or unthinkable
to get in touch with him; but I did
obtain an interview with one of his
colleagues or understrappers.

This person at first sternly forbade
my leaving. Later he softened some¬
what in the manner of expressing it,
but insisted that he could not assume
such a responsibility with one of Dr.
Cameroon’s patients.

Doubtless all this was reasonable
enough; but it must be borne in mind
that I was far from being an experi¬
enced invalid. I saw only the ne¬
cessity of keeping an important ap¬
pointment. Valuable time had al¬

ready been consumed by my uncon¬
sciousness^ over which I felt some¬
how humiliated; but, certain that I
was not seriously hurt, I was deter¬
mined not to permit further delay,
merely to satisfy red-tape require-

I defied the doctor to show that,
save for a few bruises, I was any the
worse for my mishap, and he failed
to do so. It would be tedious to re¬
peat the whole conversation. There
was evidently a strong reluctance to¬
ward permitting me to leave, and I
think they would have resorted to al¬
most any means to prevent it, had I
not thrown something of a bluff, men¬
tioning some influential personages
and threatening to have my "un¬
called-for detention” investigated by
the police. It worked, and they
yielded; or rather, their insistence
stopped short of force. For permis¬
sion or agreement I neither asked nor

'T'HE bringing of my clothes devel-
■*- oped a fresh annoyance. They
were obviously the wrong garments,
but this was stubbornly denied. Sev¬
eral persons were called, who insisted
in the most positive manner that this
was the clothing in which I had been
received. The argument nearly ex¬
hausted my patience, but at this junc¬
ture I recalled the other man, who,
with me, had been stricken down.
Doubtless we had been brought in the
ambulance together. I suggested the
probability that our clothing and
other effects had been switched. This
idea was scouted as impossible, in so
well ordered an institution, but in
view of my insistence, it was finally
consented to investigate.

I had already noticed that my room
communicated directly with another
and that the door between the two was
(for what purpose I did not inquire)
kept open. I now learned that this
second room was occupied by my fel¬
low victim. Apparently he also had

CROSSED LINES

27

gained his discharge, and from the
sound of his voice, which he made no
attempt to muffle, he also had discov¬
ered and was exasperated by the ex¬
change. In epithets, inelegant but
forcible, he denounced the whole staff
as an aggregation of crooks or idiots
(an estimate with which I had by now
no inclination to take issue) and con¬
signed them, jointly and severally, to
eternal discomfort. Presumably, this
unexpected reinforcement had some
effect in shaking the prevalent confi¬
dence in infallibility, and the gar¬
ments were re-exchanged.

This time I had the right clothes.
Of that there could be no question,
but still I was puzzled. I had no¬
ticed, when I had first left my bed, a
marked decrease in the size of my
limbs. It seemed out of reason that I
should have lost so much flesh in so
short a time. Now, when I was fully
clothed, I found my garments aston¬
ishingly loose, and, inexplicably, my
coat sleeves came down to my knuckles
and I found it expedient to turn up
the bottoms of my trousers.

So singular did all this seem that
I began to wonder if I could be light¬
headed as a result of the accident;
but being too anxious to get away to
risk introducing a question so likely
to be seized upon as an excuse for pro¬
longing my stay, I hastened to the
office and settled with the institution’s
pecuniary representative. I was
vaguely conscious of a strained sensa¬
tion, whether physical or mental I
could not determine. It made less
impression upon me at the time than
by remembrance, later. As I signed
a document handed me, the appear¬
ance of my hand attracted my atten¬
tion. It seemed shorter than of yore
and blunter-fingered. I missed an old,
familiar baseball finger. What the
deuce!

I passed into the hall. A hatrack
stood there, with a three-quarters
length mirror. I glanced at it to see
whether I cut a particularly unpre¬

sentable figure, and was almost over¬
come with astonishment. My hair,
which had been light brown and
slightly curly, was now jet black and
as straight as an Indian’s. The
swarthy countenance, the nose, the
eyes, the squat, ill-conditioned figure
—but why enumerate details?—in
none of these was there so much as a
suggestion of my own. It was not
my face. It was not my figure. It
was not 11

A S I stood gazing in horrified in -
-*»■ credulity (whether for seconds
or minutes I do not know) I heard a
step behind me, following along the
way that I had come; and it was borne
in upon me that there was something
familiar—something very familiar—
about that step. It stopped; and in
the mirror, looking over the shoulder
of that alien figure that had unac¬
countably become mine, I beheld that
which caused me to gasp again. I
dared not look around. When, at
length, summoning all my force of
will, I turned, there stood, confront¬
ing me in the flesh—incredible para¬
dox !—myself.

There we stood, each gazing through
another’s eyes upon the lineaments
that had been his own. Doubtless the
newcomer was, like me, utterly dum-
founded. The thing that had hap¬
pened was so inexplicable, so incredi¬
ble, that our mental processes were as
if stunned. My mind groped in vain
for some definitely established fact,
some incontrovertible axiom from
which to begin to reason. In vain, I
say; for if a man has ceased to be him¬
self, what supposedly established law
may he regard as fixed ? If I was not
myself, who was I? If I did not know,
what hope was there of receiving an
explanation from another? For me,
all established standards, all supposed
knowledge, had suddenly become as
nothing. The universe seemed turned
inside out. The world might, any mo¬
ment, dissolve into a puff of vapor.

WEIRD TALES

You may smile that I thought of
such vast cosmic revolution as a pos¬
sible accompaniment of phenomena
affecting but two obscure individuals
at most; but you have not passed
through such an experience. You
would not have smiled had you been
in my place.

For the time, at least, reason had
deserted me, leaving me an abject
prey to fear, the primitive instinct
to flee from the monstrous and incom¬
prehensible.

I turned and fled—fled to the street.
Purpose I had none. I fled, spurred
by blind, unreasoning, panic-stricken
terror, but not for long. I was
brought to a sudden halt by a sensa¬
tion such as I find it difficult to de¬
scribe. It was not merely nausea,
not merely suffocation. There were
these, but they were only accompany¬
ing symptoms. I felt that I was col¬
lapsing—on the point of being turned
inside out, like a glove or sock. That
is the nearest I can come to describing
the sensation. There was no sugges¬
tion of physical force, but I knew in¬
stinctively, or by some means tran¬
scending both instinct and reason,
that another onward step would rend
life from me.

I halted. I turned about and began
to retrace my steps. Facing me, I
saw also returning that other, the man
who had exchanged faces and bodies
with me. On his face were pallor,
fear, and horror of death but recently
and narrowly escaped; and I knew by
that expression, so accurately mirror¬
ing my own feelings, that he had
passed through an experience similar
to my own.

At least, it had had a partially
steadying effect. The first stampeding
impulse of panic was past. Reason,
for a time suspended, was groping to
reassert itself. The utterances of that
uncanny conversation are too hazy in
my remembrance to be quoted. The
strangeness of our position, the diffi¬
culty of differentiation between

and “I”,

is yet too great.

What I said and what he said~s
inextricably intertwined.

Certain points began to stand out,
acceptable as demonstrated fact. He
and I represented new combinations
of what had previously constituted
two distinct units; myself and the
man who had approached me from
the opposite side of the street and had
with me been struck by the car at the
moment of our attempt to pass each
other. We had reawakened with the
mental personality of each trans¬
ferred to the body of the other. One
more demonstrated fact had been dis¬
covered. We were no longer inde¬
pendent units. In some intangible
way we had become an inseparable
couple. The two members composing
it could not exist alone. A few yards
comprized the limit that we could
wander apart. An attempt to go be¬
yond this imperiled the lives of both.
Repeated experiments proved the cer¬
tainty of this last.

M Y APPOINTMENT had at first
been forgotten, in the face of
this monstrous happening. Upon re¬
calling it, I at once perceived the im¬
possibility of keeping it, in my al¬
tered guise. We sat side by side upon
a doorstep, and for a while I did some
silent thinking.

“It may be,” I said at length, “that
this head doctor can throw some light
upon our singular predicament. Let
us go back to the hospital, find out
where he is and get hold of him at

My companion attempted to insert
his hands into the pockets of the
trousers stretched almost to bursting
about his hips and loins, and extended
his long legs as far as their constrict¬
ing encasement permitted. The tight¬
ness of his coat gave a hunched ap¬
pearance to his shoulders, and his vest
gaped open, failing by two or three
inches to meet the waistband of his
trousers. He had evidently found it

3EH€S3> wiy -

SSMiMi

^&«ssasr,«s

*sta.'

>le; for that some sane

'ATsrstsrc

O ne '■

Ci=¥:

WEIRD TALES

there as myself was, of course, out of
the question. I might have gotten
around the difficulties of identifica¬
tion, but I found myself unable to
imitate convincingly my own signa¬
ture. He, however, having once seen
the original, had no difficulty about
reproducing it. So it was he who
signed and presented my check, re¬
ceiving the amount called for without
arousing the slightest suspicion either
as to the genuineness of the signature
or his identity. Thereafter, when, al¬
lowing him a liberal commission for
his service, I demanded the residue
of what was lawfully my own, with
the brazenest effrontery he refused
me so much as a penny. When I in¬
sisted, he treated my pretensions with
contempt, defying me to substantiate
my claim or to produce a witness to
its truth.

It was a busy banking day, and
here and there among the crowd I rec¬
ognized several to whom I was known.
But what of that? Evepr man of
them could only be an additional wit¬
ness to the absurdity of my conten¬
tion. As there swept over me a full
realization of my absolute helplessness
at the hands of this scoundrel, my in¬
nocent forfeiture of all the rights and
protection of civilization, a frenzy of
desperation took possession of me. I
lost my head and sprang at him, like
a wildcat.

I am, as you can see, a well-grown
man; but I had been the loser physi¬
cally as well as otherwise by the ex¬
change. I had some knowledge of
boxing, but that art requires co-ordi¬
nation—teamwork of brain and body,
acquired only through practise. My
unaccustomed members failed to move
swiftly enough for me to profit by my
knowledge. I was merely a small man
assailing a larger one, with all the ad¬
vantages in favor of the latter. The
outcome was not for a moment in
doubt. His fist, driven by the muscles
that had once been mine, crashed into
my face and I went down.

A policeman appeared, and my op¬
ponent coolly charged me with as¬
saulting and attempting to rob him.
A score of witnesses corroborated his
statement. Imagine my situation:
robbed of my savings in broad day¬
light, knocked down by my own fist,
denounced by my friends, and finally
given into custody as a thief for at¬
tempting to recover my own.

But there was yet one card that I
could play. Drawing near to him and
speaking low so that no other might
hear, I muttered through my crushed
and bleeding lips, “Fool! Have you
forgotten the invisible bond that links
us together? Have me thrown into jail
if you will; but you must accompany
me. If not, the moment that the door
shuts between us seals not only my
doom but your own.”

I had hit home. That was a detail
of which he had not thought. The
cruel sneer died upon his lips and his
face turned sickly white. He stam¬
mered and shivered in his fright—
sought to undo what his own words
had brought about. It was now my
turn to look on, smiling and sneering;
for so keen was the gratification af¬
forded me by his terror that my own
fate receded into the background, be¬
coming for a time almost a matter of
indifference.

He withdrew the charges, mumbled
something about my not being ac¬
countable for my actions. "A poor
creature,” he said, for whom he felt
responsible—sorry that he had tem¬
porarily lost patience with me—“usu¬
ally harmless”—would have to watch
me more carefully in future—and so
on. Extricating himself with diffi¬
culty from an avalanche of inquiries
and condolences, he finally got away;
and I, of course, with him.

The incident had no chastening ef¬
fect upon him. His conduct at the
office was as foolish, boorish and in¬
sulting as of yore. Although the di¬
rectors had no ray of insight into the
true state of affairs, it was not long

CROSSED LINES

before it was realized that something
was very much amiss. His resigna¬
tion (or rather mine) was finally de¬
manded and, after some blustering
and foul language on his part, re¬
ceived.

Much deeper was the impression
made upon me. Life had been to me
somewhat like the moon, which
throughout all its varying phases pre¬
sents to the beholder upon Earth al¬
ways the same side. Life had sud¬
denly been turned, and I viewed it
now from the side that had hitherto
been invisible to me. During boyhood
and since, I had been above the aver¬
age in size and strength. In justice
to myself, I cannot say that I had
used these natural advantages to be¬
come a bully; but like most others sim¬
ilarly endowed, I had vaguely felt
them as constituting a merit, a virtue,
creditable to me and praiseworthy. In¬
stinctively I had felt a slight contempt
for others less fortunate. In school I
had had no difficulty in upholding my
rights by physical force and had been
ready enough to resort to this means
of settling arguments when I sensed
it to be the least difficult way for me.
As a consequence I had come to be re¬
garded as somewhat of a hero, and
had acquired followers and admirers.

I realized, now, how undeserved
had been my own and others’ estimate
of me. I had never feared my fellow-
man ; but in that pseudo-courage there
had been nothing truly admirable. It
was but the natural outgrowth of the
knowledge that in a physical encoun¬
ter between the average boy or man
and me, the cards were always stacked
against him. I was never taking as
big a risk as was he. Not only had
this been the case in all my schoolboy
battles, but I had had this sense of
preponderance of physical power up¬
on my side all through life. From it
had proceeded the aggressiveness that
had won me recognition and respect.
What an asset it had been in the ac¬
complishment of such success as I

had attained! How naked and help¬
less were my other qualities now that
I was deprived of it! For the first
time I began to respect, even marvel
at, the unapplauded heroes who, un¬
like me, had fought with the knowl¬
edge that superior force was pitted
against them.

The loss of my position had de¬
prived me of means of earning a live¬
lihood, and I had learned the futility
of inviting another fiasco by a similar
attempt elsewhere. He, for his part,
disdaining even a pretense of work,
continued to draw and squander my
savings, throwing to me only the bar¬
est crumbs necessary to existence.

O UINED in fortune and prospects,
I would have attempted to start
life anew. The prestige of my name
and reputation were, of course, assets
upon which I could no longer count;
but I still had knowledge and experi¬
ence, intrinsic merits which might be
counted upon to raise me again to a
station in the world such as I had lost.
But alas! All such hopes were blasted
by the knowledge that it was impossi¬
ble for me to exist apart from him.

I have read somewhere that in an¬
tiquity, under the Roman Empire, it
was customary to fasten to a con¬
demned criminal a corpse, which must
be dragged with him whenever he
moved. I thought of those poor
wretches. The loathing with which
their living flesh must have shrunk
from the corruption tethered to them
could not have exceeded mine toward
the hateful partner yoked to me by a
bond no less potent because invisible
and intangible.

As our fortunes sank, my compan¬
ion—my enemy—my evil genius—ad¬
vanced from insult to brutality. Goad¬
ed beyond endurance, I sometimes, at
the first, attempted to meet force with
force; but I was no match for him.
He deliberately tormented me into
these encounters for the pleasure af¬
forded him by pounding me into sub-

WEIRD TALES

mission. I almost constantly bore
one or more black eyes, swollen fea¬
tures and bruised body. Taught by
painful and humiliating experience
the uselessness of resistance, I became
cowed. I, whose spirit had once been
so high, cringed under his bestial
taunts and threats.

Public opinion? Pair play? Poof!
He was admired, catered to, fawned
upon, while respectable people turned
with disgust from my distorted coun¬
tenance.

For my hatred toward him, ample
cause is not far to seek. His hatred
toward me may seem at first sight less
readily explicable. In part it may
have proceeded from the ill-under-
stood discovery that, after all, success
does not depend entirely upon getting
a chance; that the possession of an¬
other man’s job, name, clothing, bank
account, even his body, may still leave
something short of equality with him.
Perhaps, in part, it proceeded from
that curious instinct to heap wrongs
upon one already wronged. These
may have been contributing causes,
but there was another, more subtle
and insidious, more deadly and dam¬
nable. I know of it through personal
experience. The thing that I found
most unendurable was certainly not
physical pain. That I would have
held lightly. It was not even insult,
outrage and humiliation. It was the
everlasting propinquity—the inter¬
minable nearness to each other—its
unescapableness—the total absence of
privacy—the necessity of being every
moment under the observation of the
same person. It was like water drop¬
ping incessantly upon the same spot.
It was like eating forever of one food.
The best of friends could not have
endured it.

The sound of his voice became an
agony to me. I would close my eyes
to shut out the sight of him. I could
not sleep, because of his presence in
the same or an adjoining room. And
allowing for differences of tempera¬

ment, these effects must have been
more or less the same with him as
with me.

Often, glancing at him, I caught
an expression like to that of a raven¬
ing beast of prey contorting the fea¬
tures that had once been mine, and I
knew that in his heart was murder,
as in truth it was in my own. But
one consideration, I am sure, re¬
strained him from carrying his desire
into execution: the fear lest my death
would involve his. As for me, from
life had long since been wrung all that
had made it desirable, and I regarded
its relinquishment as of little conse¬
quence. So, for a time, we lived to¬
gether, more like hydrophobia-crazed
dogs than human beings, every other
purpose in life becoming hourly more
and more deeply submerged in the
overpowering longing to rend and de¬
stroy each other.

T HE inevitable came at last. It
matters little what trivial inci¬
dent was its immediate forerunner
and ostensible provocation. With a
bellow of rage and long pent-up hate,
he hurled himself upon me. We closed
in a deadly embrace and I fell with
his greater weight on top of me. A
table was overturned by my fall and
an electric lamp that had stood on it
crashed to the floor. The bulbs shat¬
tered, leaving us in darkness. I clawed
and tore with the desperation of de¬
spair, but his powerful hands clutched
and kneaded my throat, and I knew
that life was being strangled out of
me. I clutched at his throttling fin¬
gers, striving to bend them backward,
one by one. In vain! I desisted, and
with a final, spasmodic effort flung
my hands wide. The fingers of my
right hand came in contact with some¬
thing-—something hard. It was the
lamp. I could touch it, but it was a
little too far away for me to grasp it.
That little meant so much. I shoved
(Continued on Page 173J

A NDREA had appealed to
many men in the heyday of
her youth. More than one
man had dishonored his family name
and proved faithless to some better
woman for Andrea. It would have been
difficult for any one to tell just why
this should be. Looking at her, one
would be hard put to it to understand
wherein lay her appeal to the male
of the species. Yet history shows that
through her many an otherwise good
man had become outcast because of a
careless smile from her thick lips. She
was once a president’s favorite. She
once fled from a good husband and
journeyed across the Dominican Re¬
public to hold high carnival with a
simple chauffeur. She was a strange
mixture of Amazon, Cro-Magnon,
Circe and Lucrezia Borgia. No maga¬
zine would ever dare publish the de¬
tails of her long line of conquests.

She died with her back against a
stone wall and her face toward a ne¬
gro tiring squad.

She was forty years of age, the
mother of a demented son, the wife
of a good man whose name she had
bome for twenty-two years, and the
mistress of a black gavillero! The
latter faced the firing squad before
her and she, knowing that her turn

was coming within a brace of seconds,
calmly asked the corporal of the firing
squad for a cigarette. She lighted it
without a tremor of her huge bands,
drew the smoke deep into her lungs,
flicked away the bit of ash and said:

“Puh, Lolo was afraid to die! And
to think that I am to face the firing
squad for the sake of vermin like
that! Are you ready, corporalt”

“ \ REN’T you coming to bed, An-
dreat”

It was the petulant voice of Pedro
Andujar. The bedsprings creaked
dismally as Pedro turned his face im¬
patiently toward the wall. He never
had understood this fiery woman he
had taken to wife.

“In a moment, perhaps, Pedro,”
answered Andrea in honeyed tones.

Hearing those tones and not seeing
the woman, one would instinctively
have visioned a woman built on the
plan of a Lady Godiva. He would
never have thought of a woman
shaped like a stuffed mattress, hands
large and red from much labor,
stringy hair and dirty dresses. And
if he had looked into her eyes before
noticing her body he would never
have noticed the body at all, for An¬
drea’s eyes were the curse that the

sKSSSSSSS?^ .

fstf'*”"

A BROKEN LAMP-CHIMNEY

sigh Pedro relaxed. Then Andrea be¬
came a hell-cat in very truth. She
leaped upon the chest of her husband
and slashed with the broken chimney.

Lolo watched her for a moment. He
could stand no more. He fled from
the room and from the house, and
stood outside against the wall, pant¬
ing like a spent runner and wiping
the cold sweat from his black fore¬
head. He wanted to run—run—run!
But the night was suddenly peopled
with grotesque and terrible shadows.
He could neither run nor stay. Just
what he would have done in another
moment no one might say. Andrea
came to the doorway and spoke calmly

“What are you running fort Our
work is done—most of it. We have
the remainder of the night in which
to complete it!”

Lolo, walking in a daze, followed
this throwback to the Borgias back
into the charnel house, and stepped
across the threshold into the fatal
chamber. He noticed that the lamp no
longer flickered. The glow shone
strangely through the crimsoned
chimney that Andrea had re¬
turned to its proper place. They
two picked up in the bedclothes all
that was mortal of Pedro—a crimson
and many-pieced mass. Hurriedly
Lolo folded the clothing over to hide
that horror from his own gaze. An¬
drea was as calm as if nothing at
all had happened. They moved
out of the hut and to its rear. A pit
was dug beside the Andujar cistern.
In a few minutes there was nothing
to show what had happened but a plot
of fresh earth which was even now
being smoothed out by the broad feet
of Andrea. The house was darkened
and Andrea walked away into the
night with Lolo.

T HE frightened and bemuddled
native who faced the colored po¬
lice lieutenant knew that something
dreadful had happened.

“I tell you, lieutenant,” he said,
“all is not well at the house of Pedro
Andujar! There is a strange odor
about the place and Andrea has,
for the past five days, been living
openly in the house of Lolo, the
gavillero! There should be an inves¬
tigation!”

The lieutenant turned to a private
of police, who was listening to every
word, with his mouth wide open as if
he would have the words fly into it.

“Take two other men—no, five
other men—with you and go to the
house of Lolo. Arrest Andrea and the
black man and bring them to the
house of Pedro, where I shall await
your coming.”

The private saluted and hurried
away. The lieutenant and his in¬
formant stepped out of the oficitui de
policia and hurried to the house of
Pedro Andujar. Word had already
gotten about, and the crowd that had
gathered beside the fatal hut was
constantly augmented by additions
from other houses near by. The lieu¬
tenant sniffed the air and his face be¬
came gray. He had been in more than
one revolution and knew the odor of
death.

“What do you want of me, lieuten¬
ant?” asked a calm voice behind him.

He looked around and Andrea An¬
dujar was smiling in his face!

“Where is your husband!” de¬
manded the lieutenant.

His voice was shaking as if he had
been suffering with the ague.

Calmly Andrea smiled again and
shook her head.

“My God, Ill tell! She did it!
She made me help her!”

And Lolo, all self-control gone from
him because of five nights during
which he had seen the darkness filled
with crimson shadows, broke away
from his captors and hurried to the
rear of the hut. He fell upon his
knees beside a square of fresh earth
and began to dig furiously with his
bare hands. Some of the crowd, sick-

WEIRD TALES

ened, gave back from the crazed black.
Others, more curious, stepped closer,
breath shortened. In five minutes the
horror was disclosed.

A NDREA refused the mask when
she • turned to face the firing
squad. She was the first woman with¬
in the memory of Santo Domingo to
be sentenced to death. In all the
crowd of two thousand people massed
behind the firing squad there was not
a single expression of sympathy. An¬
drea had confessed, sparing no single
detail of that terrible night in the
hut. She seemed to gloat over the hor¬
ror that she saw in the faces of her
listeners. The story had spread like
wildfire, and people looked at her as
they would have gazed at some terri¬
ble monster brought to life from the
age of stone. When asked if she had
anything to say she waved the priest
contemptuously aside and said:

“ Hell, no! Let’s get the fiesta over

The corporal of the firing squad
raised his hand.

“Make ready!”

Andrea placed her closed fists upon
her hips and smiled.

“ At the heart take aim! ’ ’

Andrea smiled!

"Fire!”

Andrea, still smiling, deliberately
began to walk toward the firing
squad! The eight negroes, only two
of whom had fired blanks, broke and
fled as they saw this terrible, smiling
creature advancing toward them, a
great crimson stain on her waist above
her heart! Andrea laughed in de¬
rision as she fell upon her face and
rolled over on her back.

The police lieutenant ran forward
and gave her the shot of mercy. The
doctor knelt at her side, cut away her
clothing and examined her wounds.
The six bullet holes could have been
covered with the palm of a little
woman’s hand! The spectators crowd¬
ed around to see. The doctor was the
closest of them all, but for a moment
he did not notice that which the crowd
noticed at once, and which caused
them to gasp in horror and amaze.
Then he, too, noticed, and his face
became as gray as ashes; for those
six bullet wounds had, guided by a
strange freak of chance, formed a
curious pattern above the heart of the
murderess.

The pattern made one think at once
of a tiny lamp-chimney!

Note —“Desert of the Dead,” the second
story in this series of “Strange Tales From

In the March WEIRD TALES

The Composite Brain

By ROBERT CARR

The story of a monster, created out of
living tissue by an insane scientist

ON SALE AT ALL NEWS STANDS FEBRUARY FIRST

P ROWLING about in graveyards
may not be an exhilarating pas¬
time for the average person, but
it has always been my favorite diver¬
sion. My earliest recollection is of the
insatiable craving for grim and ghost¬
ly things that has dominated my life.

While other youths of my age were
engaged in sports or strolling along
quiet lanes arm in arm with the
maidens of their choice, I was often
amusing myself by roaming among
the graves of the countryside ances¬
try or by perching on the dilapidated
rail fence that surrounded the neg¬
lected village burying ground, trying
to-visualize the portentous spectacle
when all those tombs should burst
asunder at the sound of Gabriel’s
trumpet and the moldering skeletons
within them should stalk rustily forth
to take their places at the bar of
Judgment.

When thus employed, my morbid
imagination would regale me with
ghastly visions of doleful nodding
skulls borne aloft by fleshless limbs
that creaked timorously onward.

Among my most valued possessions
are several notebooks which contain
much graveyard lore as well as all the
epitaphs I have gleaned from a varied
assortment of tombstones. Many of

these stones were mottled with moss
and lichen and crumbling with age,
but I found them to be of even more
absorbing interest than their modem
neighbors, whose cold perfection was
as yet unsullied.

Delving for hidden treasure could
not have fascinated me more than the
deciphering of dim legends on the
rigid faces of ancient, time-scarred
memorials. When a lad, I enjoyed
glibly reciting the most dismal of
these productions, to the horror or
disgust of my hearers. One inscrip¬
tion, of which I was then especially
fond, proclaimed the following man¬
datory reminder of our common fate :

These terse lines repeated in sepul¬
chral tones never failed to grate upon
the ears of my audience.

As I grew older my retinue of
graveyards was extended by means of
a motorcycle, until there was none
within a hundred miles with which I
was not as familiar as with the ceme-

WEIRD TALES

tery in my immediate neighborhood.
My fondness for the society of the
dead weaned the living from me. One
by one, even my closest relatives de¬
serted me, until finally only my moth¬
er tolerated me.

They would suddenly think of some
urgent errand that must be attended
to at once, if I was seen approaching.
I would find the family living room
emptied soon after I had entered it,
and the loafers on the store porch
would drift away simultaneously
whenever I neared their rendezvous.

At times I resented this, but usually
it amused me. People had grown to
dread my presence because I never
neglected an opportunity of discours¬
ing on death and the grave. “He has
studied tombstones so much that he
looks like one” once floated back to
my ears from a retreating group, but
I was undisturbed by such remarks.

My father left a competence suffi¬
cient to provide each of his three chil¬
dren with a comfortable income;
therefore I was free to devote my life
to the peculiar pursuit that appealed

The death of my mother severed the
last link that bound me to my child¬
hood home, excepting the graves of
my kindred. Strange as it may seem,
these mounds were more attractive to
me than many of those that rested be¬
neath them had ever been when they

After the death of my mother, my
elder brother insisted that the home¬
stead be sold and the proceeds divid¬
ed. I then resolved to spend the re¬
mainder of my life visiting every
graveyard I could find.

Accordingly I purchased a high-
powered automobile, had it fitted with
every convenience for comfort and
safety, employed a callow youth whoi
knew practically nothing but how to
drive a car prudently, and started on
my journey. A companion who was
capable of asking pertinent questions
or of being annoyed, as most normal

persons are, by my odd characteristics
and aim in life, was not desirable.

We traveled deliberately. There
was no need of haste, and I was de¬
termined to overlook no spot that har¬
bored the bones of a departed mem¬
ber of the human race. Whenever
such appeared, I left my man in the
ear and began investigations.

Gloatingly I threaded my way
amidst myriads of graves. Some were
dreary, sunken and weed-grown. Oth¬
ers were beautifully rounded and
covered with gay, nodding flowers,
smilax, or graceful ferns. Occasional¬
ly I would find the grounds skillfully
laid out with winding, flower-bor¬
dered walks and radiant with fanciful
beds of coleus and geraniums. But
most of the surroundings bore piteous
evidence that the dead are soon for¬
gotten. Ugly weeds filled the grounds
and long, strangling brier tentacles
tripped the feet, scratched the hands
and tore the clothing of any one who
ventured among them.

Despite all obstacles, the most sat¬
isfying hours of my life were spent
strolling leisurely among the tombs,
reading the inscriptions on the stones
and pondering on the futility of the
struggle for wealth, fame and all the
other vain and fleeting things for
which humanity contends.

A LMOST a year had passed happily
in this manner and we were trav¬
eling through a delightful part of New
England near the close of a glowing
spring day, when I espied a most at¬
tractive cemetery crowning a symmet¬
rical elevation a short distance from
the highway. An avenue lined with
majestic trees led upward to the or¬
nate iron gate that closed the entrance
to the grounds.

It was a beautiful scene that met
my eyes as I loosened the latch and
stepped inside the gate. The walks
and drives were laid out with puri¬
tanical precision and paved with
broad slabs of stone. Directly in

THE TOMB-DWELLER

39

front of the entrance a large block of
the finest white marble was mounted
on a handsome granite base. Stand¬
ing forth in bold relief upon the flaw¬
less surface were Gray’s immortal
words: “The paths of glory lead but
to the grave.” Never did that ex¬
quisite line appeal so vividly to me as
when I stood there and gazed about
me in that princely city of the dead.

Stately monuments reared their
glistening heads on every side, inter¬
mingled with many less lofty but no
less faultless triumphs of the sculp¬
tor’s art. It was plain that many
dwellers in that peaceful haven of
rest had trod the paths of glory to
their ultimate destination. Illustri¬
ous names “famed in song and story”
and familiar to every urchin in the
land gleamed forth upon those noble
memorials.

The air was vibrant with the song
of birds and laden with the fragrance
of the trailing arbutus, that sweet-
modest flower so dear to the heart of
the New Englander. Many of the
shaded graves were carpeted with the
clinging tendrils of these plants, and
other artless flower faces peeped here
and there among the greenery. There
were no fallen tombstones, no broken,
moss-grown slabs. All was neat and
revealed the touch of skilled and lov-

Passing slowly along, making notes
in my memorandum book and drink¬
ing in the beauty and sublimity with
which I was surrounded, I finally
came to the farther slope of the hill.
Here the graves were few but not neg¬
lected, and I saw a small stone build¬
ing, evidently a private vault. There
were tiny grated windows on either
side and the structure was partly un¬
der the surface of the ground, it hav¬
ing been built into the side of the hill.

A tall ventilator rose above the roof,
and on approaching I was surprized
to see a small chimney, which had
been hidden from view by the ventila¬
tor. I attempted to peer in at one

of the little windows, but could dis¬
cern nothing, as the glass had been
rendered opaque. I then passed
around to the front of the structure.
A stone slab served as a door. There
was no sign of a fastening on it except
a hole that had been drilled through
it, evidently for a cord to pass to the
outside for the lifting of an inner
latch.

As I stood there regarding the
building with curiosity, the door sud¬
denly opened and an aged man ap¬
peared on the threshold. He startled
me, as I had thought the place unoc¬
cupied, at least by the living.

The man gazed at me with a look
of extreme hostility and asked curtly,
“Why are you spying at my home in
this way ? ’ ’

“Home?” I echoed. “Surely you
don’t live here, do you?”

“Indeed I do! Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well, you see I thought this build¬
ing a vault until I saw the chimney on
it. After that I was puzzled and won¬
dered what it was intended for, but it
never occurred to me that it might
be a dwelling.”

“When you have lived as long as I
have, you will know better than to
judge things by their appearance,”
was the cold reply.

“Excuse me,” I ventured. “I
didn’t mean to be rude. You’ve
chosen a most beautiful environment
in which to live.”

The stranger eyed me piercingly for
an instant, then said, “Do you really
mean that?”

“Certainly, I mean it. I envy you
your neighbors. Most people are more
afraid of dead men than of live ones,
but I prefer the peaceful, unobtrusive
dead every time.”

The old man’s deep-set black eyes
lighted with pleasure.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, rubbing his
hands together gleefully, “you’re the
man I’ve been looking for these many
years. Sit here and chat with me.”

40

WEIRD TALES

He indicated a bench beside the
door. It was gratifying to meet this
strange character. Feeling that his
ideas might accord with my own and
that we should find mutual enjoyment
in each other’s company, I was glad
of the opportunity to talk with him.

He was an intelligent-looking man
of above average height, well-propor¬
tioned, with broad shoulders and long
sinewy arms. His hair and silken
beard were long, but well kept and of
dazzling whiteness. He had the chas¬
tened expression of one who has suf¬
fered much and walked patiently
within the shadow, and his broad
brow was furrowed as by intense
thought. Yet he had an air of con¬
tentment that a monarch might envy.

We seated ourselves on the bench
and conversed on topics of general in¬
terest. In response to his questions I
told him of my obsession and conse¬
quent joumeyings.

He was much interested, and when
I finished he grasped my hand and
exclaimed fervently: “Thank Qod
that I have met you! No man has
ever entered my home, hut I want
you to come inside with me. You will
then be able more fully to understand
what I am resolved to tell you. The
story is not a pleasant one. When
you have heard it you will know why
I live as I do and why I prefer dead
neighbors. ”

I followed my host into his dwel¬
ling. It contained only one room, but
a curtain was drawn across one end,
dividing it into two apartments. A
small stove, a rude, home-made table,
one decrepit chair, a well-filled book¬
case and a stool completed the visible
furnishings. We seated ourselves and
my companion began his story.

‘ ‘ T AM what might be called a south-

*■ em Yankee. My father was a
Confederate captain and my mother a
dyed-in-the-wool Yankee, whose par¬
ents disowned her when she eloped
with the dashing young officer in gray.

My twin brother Ronald and I were
bom in Alabama in the midst of the
chaos following the Civil War, and
our boyhood days were darkened by
the fearful struggle for existence ex¬
perienced by the people of the South
at that time.

“You and I seem to have similar
inclinations now, but I was quite your
opposite when a lad, for a haunting
fear of being buried alive made an ab¬
ject coward of me. Consequently I
had no liking for graveyards or what
was in them. I was subject to a sort
of catalepsy, the exact nature of
which was never determined. My
parents thought the condition might
have resulted from an injury inflicted
upon me when an infant.

“At any rate, I had several attacks
of more or less severity, during which
I appeared to be dead. I could hear
all that was said but couldn’t move a
muscle. Usually I soon recovered,
but on one occasion the authorities in¬
sisted that I be buried, as I had been
pronounced dead by the physician and
the eoronor, but my mother refused
to listen to them, declaring she would
not believe me gone until she conld
see signs of decomposition. If she had
lived a few years longer the things I
am about to relate to you would never
have happened. My parents and I
were reticent about my seizures. Even
my brother was ignorant of their
character, and the subject was pain¬
ful to us.

“Naturally I lived in constant
dread of another attack, and you can
imagine with what apprehension I
watched my faithful mother growing
older and frailer from year to year,
for, aside from all else she meant to
me, her demise might mean my pre¬
mature burial.

“I had reached the age of nineteen
when mother passed away and my
father, who was devoted to her, fol¬
lowed her in less than a year. The
old home seemed so desolate after our
parents were gone that Ronald and I

worms that would soon^rob^me^of^hu-

Ji£SS

I was pronounced dead while in the “On that fatal morning I could

HIHIrl' sisss

gUS

ssjrtHBKffljs:

C^K^:=f*i=s

s.-HHS'FSs

■ ■ siarag

» 3 s 3

^^ne^tT^fZ

Iils 2 ^r§

=Iis:?3?:?s

awaiting burial. If you have ever been

(STwSisl

isss iiiii

THE TOMB-DWELLER

43

both arms around him. It was done
so quickly and unexpectedly that he
had no chance to escape or to recover
his balance. He fell headlong, bury¬
ing his face in my shoulder.

“He made frantic efforts to break
my hold, but I gripped him like a vise.
I was more muscular than he and my
thirst for revenge gave me a fiendish
strength, while his fright made him
as weak as a child.

“After a brief struggle he raised
his head and looked at me with eyes
that bulged with terror. I could feel
his heart pounding like a trip-ham¬
mer. His face was ghastly, gray and
drawn. I kept my features rigid but
had opened my eyes the merest trifle
and I returned his gaze with a dull ex¬
pressionless stare. As he looked at me
all hope seemed to die within him.
His head sank down, a convulsive
tremor passed over him and he re¬
laxed in my arms.

“I thought he had fainted, but
when I rolled him to one side, felt his
pulse and noted the sagging jaw and
glazed eyes, I knew I had succeeded
in paying him in his own coin. I had
killed him and left no mark.

“lV/TY FIRST sensation was one of
triumph. He had planned to
get rid of me but I had cheated the
grave and beaten him at his own game.
Then came a reaction and I did a very
foolish thing. Though there was noth¬
ing to prove I had caused his death,
yet the fact that I had meant to do it
made me fear I would be suspected.
‘A guilty conscience needs no ac¬
cuser,’ is a true saying. I became
terror-stricken and determined that
no one should know that any change
had taken place, if I could prevent it.

“I rushed to the doors and locked
them. For the first time in my life I
was glad to be a twin and the image
of my brother. Tearing off my
shroud, I rolled his body into the
coffin and spread the garment over it,
then folded his hands on his breast

and combed his hair. Fastening the
lid down securely, I pushed the coffin
close to the wall. I couldn’t lift it
back upon the trestles alone but I ar¬
ranged everything else as it had been.
Then I went to the buffet and took a
a drink of cordial. I began to feel
very weak and feared my paleness
might cause comment.

“I had regained my composure and
was able to act naturally when a
neighbor called a little later. I cas¬
ually asked him to help me place the
coffin on the trestles. Knowing that
we had no undertaker, there being
none available in many thinly settled
parts of the South, he thought nothing
strange of the request.

“The funeral occurred as planned
and my brother was buried. I as¬
sumed his name, and no one but my
wife has ever known the truth until
today.

“The next morning Ronald’s ac¬
complice showed me the trap he had
been hired to prepare for me. There
was an old quarry on our plantation,
which had been abandoned years be¬
fore. It had become a dangerous pit-
fall into which stock sometimes fell
and were killed. During the rainy
season the seep water in it was very
deep. In fact, a hunter had fallen
into it a few years before we bought
the plantation, and although his com¬
panions made strenuous efforts to
rescue him, he was drowned and his
body was never recovered.

“I was very fond of trapping and
had caught many animals in the vi¬
cinity of the quarry, having gone to
attend my traps so often that I had
broken a well-defined path through
the underbrush. It was in this path
that a snare had been prepared for
me. The quarry extended under¬
ground for quite a distance beyond
the pit itself, and beneath my path.
It was at that point that an opening
into it had been cunningly made and
covered with the twigs and other de¬
bris with which the ground was

WEIRD TALES

strewn, so that it was impossible to
detect its presence. If I had stepped
on the light trashy material that hid
it, I should have broken through at
once and been unable to save myself
from falling to certain death at the
bottom of the quarry. No one but
the two conspirators would have ever
known what became of me.

“The villain exhibited his work
with pride, and after we had closed
the opening to prevent accidents of
the kind it was intended to cause, I
paid the wretch the amount my broth¬
er had promised him, which I had
found to be a tidy sum. He left the
state and I’ve never seen him since.

“I sold the plantation and my wife
and I went to Maryland. After a few
years she died and I came to this
place. I bought this corner of the
cemetery, erected this building and
have lived here ever since. I take
care of these grounds for a reasonable
stipend and the privilege of being let
alone. I haven’t had an attack of my
malady for many years but I’m not
taking any chances of being buried
alive, for I’ve arranged to be my own
undertaker.”

The old man rose and lifted the
curtain that divided the room. His
act revealed a huge block of stone,
which had been hollowed out in the
shape of a coffin.

“You see I sleep in this,” he went
on, “and after I lie down I lower the
lid, which you notice is suspended
near the ceiling. It has a secret lock
on the under side, which holds it
against all comers. The opening left
at the head isn’t large enough to per¬
mit the removal of my body. The
fastening of my door is entirely on
the inside, so that when I draw in the
cord no one can enter my home unless
I wish, without breaking the door
down, and that would be difficult.

“Even then my body cannot be
taken out of this coffin, nor can the
coffin itself be moved without expen¬
sive apparatus or the destruction of

this building. I feel sure that no one
will ever care to go to all that trouble
for nothing. I have no relatives or
friends and no hoarded wealth. It is
seldom that any one comes to my door.
Occasionally strangers stroll near, but
after they get a glimpse of me they
get away as fast as they can.

“You alone have shown a friendly
interest or anything but repugnance.
Most people act as if they think me a
lunatic or some sort of a freak. Per¬
haps that isn’t to be wondered at.
I don’t blame them for it. In fact
I prefer it, for they have no desire to
disturb me.”

I rose, shook hands with my host
and thanked him warmly for the en¬
tertainment he had afforded me.

“My friend,” I said earnestly, “I
envy you your security. You have
gone to unusual lengths to protect
yourself, and it surely seems that your
plans must be successful. It is well
worth the effort. I only wish that I
was as well equipped to control the
disposal of my body when I am
through with it.”

And thus we parted.

TT WAS several years later that, on
a dreary autumn day, I stood
again at the iron gate of that New
England cemetery. The leaves of the
magnificent trees that bordered the
avenue were falling in showers, tom
from their moorings by a boisterous
southeast wind that chilled me to the
bone. I felt unaccountably depressed
as the gate closed behind me. Gazing
about in that silent enclosure I knew
that my hermit friend was either dead
or unable to perform the task of car¬
ing for the grounds. While they were
not really neglected, yet that exquisite
neatness I had noticed on my former
visit was absent.

I hurried to the stone building, but
the lichen-covered doorstep and the
grass-grown path that led to it were
sufficient proof that the owner was
(Continued on Page 176,)

Into

Author of "Osiris” and "Mandrake ”

E VEN the most discerning per¬
son might be excused for fail¬
ing to trace the connection be¬
tween the report of a police inspector
to his chief regarding the disappear¬
ance of a desired criminal, and an
article in the newspapers concerning
the mysterious absence of a noted
professor of mathematics. Vet the
connection existed and has come to
light only now through a few dis¬
jointed notes in the dairy of Dr.
Maurice Carrington and a letter re¬
ceived by the chief of police of Or-
land, a city in northern California.

Properly, the history of the affair
begins with Inspector Bowman’s re¬
port to Chief Conrad, and is as fol-

Acting upon your instructions, I started
a search for “Professor” Farkes, wanted for
burglary, and learned that since about a
week ago he has not been seen in any of his
usual hangouts. Those who know his habits

that he baa been keeping fairly straight

ago. No job can be traced to him in that
time. I have several men on the lockout
and hope to have news shortly.

To the police, the clever crook oper¬
ating under the name of “Professor”
Parkes had been unusually successful

in his nefarious trade until appre¬
hended and sent across for five years.

Emerging from his confinement, he
had remained in seclnsion, and the
chief’s desire to interview him had
been with regard to another case con¬
cerning whch Parkes was supposed to
possess information. Incidentally, the
title “professor” was one to which
Parkes had been entitled, as he had
served on the faculty of a small uni¬
versity for a time as an assistant in¬
structor in mathematics. But poor
pay and small opportunity for ad¬
vancement had evidently started him
on a crooked course.

On the same day that Bowman sent
his report to the chief, the following
“story” appeared in the daily press
of the city and was flashed over the
wires of the news services. It was
headed:

WHERE IS PROFESSOR
CARRINGTON?

In part the article read as follows:

Where is Professor Maurice Carrington?
The police would like to know, and also the

tially' destroyed by fire at 3 o’clock this
morning. The blaze evidently originated in
the study and laboratory of Dr. Cforrington
on the second floor of his Main Street resi-

INTO THE FOURTH

T HE following is the statement
left by Parkes:

“I suppose if I were not educated
or if my studies had not been along
the line of mathematics I might put
the experience I have had down as a
mental hallucination. But, realizing,
as I do, the possibilities that lie along
the path of higher mathematics and
allied sciences, and what a man with
the learning of Or. Maurice Carring¬
ton might accomplish, I am ready to
believe that all that happened is not
only possible, but that it happened to
me. If the writing of this statement
appears somewhat unusual, it may en¬
lighten those who read, to know that
I wrote it first backward and later
copied it, so that it would read ac¬
cording to usual standards. Further¬
more, I wrote it with my left hand,
which was formerly my right. I am
now hiding in Carrington’s house. I
shall leave it tonight, but not in the
ordinary manner. Where I shall go,
God alone knows. Now for the story:

“I have tried of late years to live
straight. But recently I have discov¬
ered that the chances for an ex-con to
gain a livelihood are most precarious.
So I decided to try just one more coup
and then strike out for the Antipodes.
It must have been fate that sent me
to the Carrington house. I knew him
by reputation but had never seen him
and had no idea where he lived. I
had studied the place, saw that two
old men were the only occupants, and
when the one I took to be a servant
left, apparently to be gone some time,
since he had a valise, I determined to
crack the crib’, as they say in the
vernacular. I waited till about 11
and the servant returned. It was
pitch dark and there is no porch light.

I kept out of sight, and as the servant

opened the door and went in, I went
also—like a shadow. I dodged into a
recess of the hallway, where I re¬
mained till I heard both master and
man retire. Meanwhile, from a few
words of conversation, I discovered
the identity of the man whose house I
had entered and wished it had been
someone else’s. But it was now too
late, so I figured on going ahead, but
that if it came to a personal encoun¬
ter with the professor I would under
no circumstances injure a man for
whom I had a great deal of respect.

“I judged his study would be a
likely place to pick up some stuff of
value—probably there would be a
cash box or safe. I went up the
stairs and succeeded in getting into
the room. It was dark as a pocket,
but I had no hesitation in using my
flashlight because I knew they were
both abed, and in another part of the
building.

“It was a long room, with windows
high up. The inner side was occupied
by a sort of laboratory workbench
with shelves for chemicals and instru¬
ments. At the near end of the room
was a desk and bookcase and, as I had
expected, a small safe. But it was
open and contained nothing of value.
There were some interesting scientific
instruments, most of which were fa¬
miliar to me, but little that seemed
to offer negotiable spoil.

“One thing puzzled me. It was
what I might call a window, or at
least an aperture, about four feet
square and the bottom about level
with my knees. It was in the wall at
the far end, which faced the street or

“But it was not a window—nor a
door. I find it hard to make my mean¬
ing clear. Imagine, if you can, an
opening apparently to the open air,
but veiled with some substance im¬
pervious alike to light and air, a sub¬
stance unlike anything within ordi¬
nary knowledge. It was not cloth, nor
was it wood, glass, or any similar com-

48

WEIRD TALES

position. Yet it quivered and vibrated
with every breath of air, as if its com¬
ponent parts were disconnected and in
constant circulation, so to speak, as in¬
deed all so-called ‘matter’ actually is.
In color this veil, screen—whatever it
might be termed—was grayish-blue,
like the sky on a winter morning.

“I pressed my finger into the veil
and it penetrated the entire length of
the member, as if there had been no
limit to the depth or thickness of the
obstacle between the study and the

“When I removed my finger, there
was no visible orifice. I puzzled over
the queer matter until I recalled my
real purpose here and finally selected
a few valuable small instruments
(much as I disliked doing so) and
laid them aside to take along. Then,
drawn by a curiosity over which I
seemed to have no control, I again
turned to the mysterious aperture. I
threw again the light from my pocket
lamp upon the surface, which oscillat¬
ed and wavered like the surface of a
pond disturbed by a vagrant breeze.
Yet it gave the impression of tremen¬
dous activity and vitality, as if, odd
though it sounds, it were the seat of
all motion. I know how ineffectual
must be my attempt to make this
clear, and all my similes are lame. Yet
there are no words to tell just how
this affected me.

‘ ‘ Some attraction kept me there, in¬
duced me to place first a tentative fin¬
ger, then my arm through, or rather,
into the veil. I followed with one
foot — in another moment I had
slipped through!

“ TP I have had difficulty in express-
A ing myself heretofore, what must
be my dilemma now, when I attempt
to describe what followed. After all,
our vocabulary is wofully limited
when it comes to the consideration of
matters outside the ken of common
knowledge and average minds. I had,
so it seemed, entered a void, though

all about me was that impression, real
or imaginary, of tremendous vitality
and activity. I seemed to have gained
an unwonted lightness, as if I had be¬
come a part of this great external and
internal commotion. Also, I seemed
to possess, at least to feel the posses¬
sion of, superior power, as yet un¬
tested. I sensed rather than felt
things, but instinctively I knew I had
blundered into some strange state of
existence, but that I was there too
soon. I stretched my wings, meta¬
phorically, like the fledgeling bird
when its pinions are first given to the
air. I felt the limitless, vast and un¬
tried reaches of my new world all
about me and time had assumed new
standards, if not altogether annihilat¬
ed. I realized that, already, since my
plunge into the unknown, I had lived
centuries. They say hasheesh eaters
sometimes experience these sensations
—I do not know; that is one drug I
have never tried.

‘ 1 Then, as my perceptions became a
trifle clearer, though as yet far from
clear, I saw dimly, almost introspec-
tively, if that is comprehensible, a
great plain bordered by colorless
skies, across which rolled great, vapor¬
ous clouds.

“Suddenly I was aware of sounds,
many and indeterminate; sounds that,
came from nowhere and died away in¬
to nothingness. Now they rose to a
babble of what might have been voices,
though no words were distinguish¬
able; again they were but subdued
moans, sounding the very depths of
anguish and despair.

“I moved forward, and vistas
changed as if by magic. I realized
that with one brief step I had covered
inestimable space and that eons of
time had passed me by. The land¬
scape, if I may call it such when there
was no land, became a vivid green
with a sky of gold. Another step for¬
ward, and dull, overpowering black¬
ness enveloped me. It was as if I bad
(Continued on Page 111)

I IPE in the West African bush can
be either wildly exciting or
deadly monotonous. Jim Chis¬
holm had complained to his friend
Hodgins the first night he arrived
down in Duala from his lonely bush
station in northern Nigeria that his
tour had been the latter.

* ‘ Not even a damned uprising. Na¬
tives all as peaceful as lambs,” he
grumbled, “so I thought I’d get in a
little shooting before I went home
and trekked down here. I’ve heard
so many of your wonderful yarns
about this being the finest hunting
ground in the world.”

He grinned over at his host, who
was noted for his yarning.

“Have any luck?” Hodgins asked.
Chisholm puffed away at his ciga¬
rette for a moment and stared mood¬
ily out into the depths of the African
night but did not answer for some

“I had a rather exciting trip,” he
began at length, with a wry little
smile, “but I didn’t get a shot. To
tell the truth, I had an idea I was be¬
ing hunted myself.”

“What do you mean?”

Hodgins pulled himself up sharply
from the depths of his camp chair
and looked curiously over at his guest.

“Well, as I told you, I started down
country with the intention of doing
some hunting. I had the usual string
of carriers and my boy Adamou (you
remember him, don’t you?), but say!
we had no sooner crossed the French
border into the Cameroons than the
fun commenced. The first night we
camped at Nsanakang, in an old na¬
tive hut just along the Tie Tie Bridge
—you know the old spot where we
met the Huns in 1916. Just as I was
turning in for the night a native sud¬
denly came slinking in out of the
darkness, naked as the day he was
bom and carrying a note, wedged in
a cleft stick, proper native style. He
squatted down on the floor while I took
and read it. It was a warning, telling
me to turn back and not attempt to
cross the Cameroons, and was signed
with—what do you think?—the Leop¬
ard’s claw, roughly sketched in
blood!”

Hodgins whistled in dismay.

“Got the Leopard Society on your
trail, eh?”

Chisholm nodded.

“So I concluded. The note was
written in good English, native clerk
style, but when I demanded to know
from the carrier who had sent him he
pretended not to know English.

WEIRD TALES

Ilausa or Yoruba. But I know the
native too well. My ten years here
haven’t left me altogether a fool,
Hodgy. I had seen at the first glance
that my friend was no bushman. He
had the dark ridge around his neck,
showing he had been used to wearing
a collar, and the soles of his feet were
pink and torn—he was used to boots.
And when he whined, I saw a gold
filling in his tooth! So I threatened
to thrash him, and that soon brought
the English out of him. However, he
insisted he did not know who had sent
him. He said he had met a man on
the bush trail, who had paid him to
deliver the note; and when I asked
him why he was posing as a bushman
he excused himself by saying the man
asked him to deliver the note that
way. Well, I couldn’t get anything
out of him, so I had the carriers come
in and tie the chap up, intending to
hand him over to the police at the
next station, along with the note. But
the next morning he was gone! And
the carriers, of course, knew nothing.

“Poor old Adamou was terribly
concerned and begged me to turn
back, but I was out for the adventure
of the thing, so I went on. You know
that country through there, between
Nsanakang and Ossidinge—bush so
dense that we didn’t see sunlight all
day, and steaming like an oven. We
heard several herds of elephant
trumpeting but didn’t see any and
arrived at Ossidinge that next night.
I put up with Dupr4, the agent of the
factory there. He was mighty pleased
to see me, too, and opened a case of
Plymouth gin in honor of the occa¬
sion. We had quite a merry evening.
I told him about the note, and he
seemed to get quite upset over it. He
said that the whole country was a hot¬
bed of the Leopards: natives disap¬
pearing every night, mangled bodies
being found in the morning, and the
government too damned frightened to
tackle it. There are too many in¬
fluential men in it. The only man

who had courage enough to tackle it
or start ferreting was poor old Cheve-
neaux of the police. It seems he got
a long list of names of members, in¬
cluding a number of his own officials,
his clerk and house boy. But before
he had a chance to act he was found
mauled himself one morning. Since
then the police have steered clear of
the thing.

“Duprl asked me if I had any ene¬
mies, but for the life of me I couldn’t
think of a soul who had any grudge
against me. Dupr6 warned me not to
go on through the bush, but I said I
was so far in then that there wasn’t
much use turning back. Well, we
talked late on into the night. I guess
it was about two when we turned in.
I was dead tired and asleep within
five minutes. His bungalow is one of
those modem, corrugated iron-roofed
ones, with grass mats hung inside as
ceilings—and hot as the blazes. Per¬
haps it was th- heat—I don’t know
what it was—but suddenly I found
myself wide awake, listening to some¬
thing rustling along overhead on the
mat ceiling. I thought it might be a
black mamba, at first (you know how
they often creep in there), so I slid
noiselessly out from under the mos¬
quito net, with my revolver in my
hand, and turned up the hurricane
lamp. And just in time to see a
streak of silver flash through the air!
Then the mats bulged violently and
suddenly and I knew it was no snake
up there. I got off three rounds, but
evidently I missed, for the next mo¬
ment I heard someone jump on to the
lower roof next door and heard bare
feet padding away. Then Dupre and
the boys rushed in. We both had
rather a shock when we saw that a
broad, flat-bladed knife was buried
into the hilt, right in my pillow where
a moment before my head had been.
And so accurately had the weapon
been thrown that the rent in the mos¬
quito net was barely perceptible.”

“Good Lord!” Hodgins exclaimed.

WEIRD TALES

managed to smuggle it up country
somehow?”

"They didn’t, though!” Hodgins
said with a grin.

“They didn’t?”

“No!. You remember when the
Huns knew they would have to evacu¬
ate they thought there might be a
chance of their escaping out to sea on
some of those old cargo boats that
were lying here in the harbor. They
actually started out in them, too, then
got caught like vats in a trap, for the
H. M. 8. Cumberland came in and
shelled them all as they were trying
to steam out. Now I happen to know
that the Huns had piled all their gold
specie—live hundred thousand gold
marks—in boxes, and had put them
aboard the old cargo Bolango. When
the Cumberland began firing, they
immediately put the boxes back into a
surf boat and sent it ashore again in
charge of three Hun officers. It was
never seen again, nor those men.”

Chisholm was more than interested

“But I happen to know what be¬
came of it,” Hodgins went on eagerly.
“I’ve got an old native here who
knows all about it and knows where
those officers hid it. Mika Dodawa is
his name. He’s been a trader here for
years, and he had quite a business be¬
fore the war. He was one of the first
to be taken prisoner when the Huns
came in here, because he was a British
subject. Originally he came from
Nigeria. He was a clever old chap,
speaks good English, and I suppose
they thought he was a spy. Anyhow,
they commandeered all his goods and
made him do carrier work. When the
fun began he was detailed off to help
load the Bolango. He was on her
when the shelling began and, by a
stroke of luck, he was the one native
sent along to help those three Hun
officers hide the gold. They went in
the surf boat up one of the creeks
here, landed the gold and buried it.
Then the four of them waited till

dark and put off again, intending to
sail down the creek, slip past the
Cumberland out to open sea, and try
to escape down to Fernando Po. They
planned to keep old Mika along with
them till nearing the island, and then
throw him overboard so he could tell
no tales about the gold; but fortu¬
nately Mika speaks German as well as
English, and he knew all they were
saying. However, as they were steal¬
ing down the creek a shell suddenly
came whizzing along. The Huns’
white caps had given them away.
Mika didn’t wait for the next. He
threw himself overboard and swam
ashore just in time, for the second
shell cut the canoe light in two and
the others were lost. He found he had
landed in dense bush. He was afraid
to go back to Duala, not knowing who
were in possession there, so he wan¬
dered around; and the next day he
fell in with a party of German run¬
ners going up country. He was at
once commandeered for service again,
and before long found himself away
up in Nigeria. He didn’t get back
here till after the armistice. Then, of
course, all his trade was gone.”

“But does he still keep his secret?”

“Yes, but since his terrible adven¬
tures he has naturally steered clear
of anything that might get him mixed
up with the government. The old
chap likes me and owes me a little. I
advanced him enough to open up a
new agency—of course it will be to
my own benefit, too, for he is a shrewd
trader. But out of gratitude he has
let me in on the secret.”

“You don’t mean—?”

“Yes, the old chap told me the
whole yarn today. And he has offered
to sell the secret. He wants five hun¬
dred pounds!”

Chisholm looked rather dubious.

“Are you sure the man’s straight?”

“I’d stake my life on him! Of
course he expects to make his pile out
of it, too, but he’s too old to attempt
the thing himself, and besides, he

LEOPARD'S TRAIL

doesn’t trust his own people. One
third the loot and the five hundred
pounds, that is what he asks. Now
what do you say?”

‘‘I’m on!” Chisholm said prompt¬
ly, “if only for the fun of the thing.”

2

with the old native.

Mika Dodawa had already estab¬
lished a flourishing business on the
money lent him by Hod gins. Chis¬
holm noted this and commented on it
as they made their way down the ma¬
rine to where a large new sign,

MIKA DODAWA
General Negociant

was displayed over a pretentious
whitewashed building.

“Evidently prospering,” Hodgins
remarked. “Come on! We’ll go
right ini”

Mika's store was a typical coast one:
perfume, soaps, cotton goods, sar¬
dines, silks, cheap fancy biscuits, hur¬
ricane lamps, all cluttered up in a
heterogeneous mass.

Mika himself was in behind the
counter. He was a little, thin, shrewd¬
faced man, not too dark, and with
Semitic features. His manners were
markedly French, bordering on the
suave. He wore English clothes and
the usual dirty collar and cuffs.

He bowed low as they entered, evi¬
dently taking them for customers, but
the next instant a look of pleased be¬
wilderment crossed his face. He slid
out from behind the counter and came
toward them, hand outstretched.

“It’s not you, Mr. Hodgins, sure¬
ly?” he cried, in the most perfect
English Chisholm had ever heard a
native use. (He learned later that the
old man had been educated in Eng¬
land and spoke French and German
just as fluently.)

11 God is merciful 1” he went on, his
voice trembling with eagerness. “I

have waited long for this day. See
how, by your goodness, I have pros¬
pered! The money you lent me has
already increased a hundredfold! But

He led the way into a little back
room and ordered the native clerk
who had been sitting in there to go
forward and tend the shop. Then he
made haste with his own hands to
pour them out a whisky and soda.

“I did not know you were coming.
I had almost given up hope,” he said;
then glancing at Chisholm signifi¬
cantly, he added, “though that little
matter of which I spoke to you yester¬
day still remains hidden within my

“My friend here knows all about
it,” Hodgins put in hastily. “I could
not raise the five hundred by myself
and, as you suggested, I asked my
friend to come in with us on it.”

“Of course!” The old man’s eyes
narrowed slightly. “But I presume
our original agreement still holds

“Yes,” Hodgins said a little im¬
patiently. “You get one-third the
loot and another five hundred pounds

“Cash down!” he put in eagerly.

They had already anticipated this
and had the cash ready. Hodgins
took off his web belt and counted out
a roll of crisp notes. The old man
watched with glistening eyes. He
clutched at them with trembling fin¬
gers when they were passed to him,
and shoved them far down into his
breast pocket.

“And the receipt?” asked Chis¬
holm carelessly.

“Oh!” said the old man in sur¬
prize. “You understand the neces¬
sity of caution, sir. With the French
government here it would be so easy
to arouse suspicion, and if any writ¬
ing should fall into their hands they
would ferret it out to the end.”

“That’s all right,” Chisholm said
easily, ‘ ‘ the French government won't

WEIRD TALES

get hold of any of my papers. I want
the receipt; otherwise I back out.
What if there should be no loot? I
want my money refunded.”

“Of course! Of course!” Mika
said soothingly, and at once turned
and wrote out a receipt for the money,
adding at Chisholm’s dictation: “To
be refunded in the event of the failure
of the venture.”

He was smiling as he handed the
paper over, then said, in a business¬
like tone, “Now, when can you gentle¬
men start?”

“Today!” they both said promptly.

“Good!”

Old Mika came closer to them and
went on in a whisper, “I will send
my boy to lead you to the canoe at
noon. The spot lies three hours’
journey up the creek and you will
know- it thus. You will pass three
villages on the right, hidden back in
the mangroves; and four miles beyond
the last village you will come to a
great swamp, three miles in length
and bare of trees or shrubs. Beyond
that lies a dense bush where you will
see, rising high above all others, a
great white cottonwood tree. You
cannot mistake it. I dare not go
along with you, as they know an old
man does not go shooting with the
white men. Take your guns, and the
officials will think you go but for a
day’s sport. Wait for me under the
cottonwood tree and I will come when
darkness falls, with tools and trusty

The two men readily agreed to the
plan and were relieved to know every¬
thing was in readiness for them. Ac¬
cordingly, they returned to their bun¬
galow, changed into bush kit and
started out after old Mika’s boy when
he arrived an hour or so later.

“You no take me ’long to shoot,”
Niya said in deep chagrin, as he saw
the two men start off.

There was a peculiar gleam in his
dark eyes as he spoke—a rather

challenging one at the strange boy
who was usurping his place.

"Not this time,” Hodgins said.

“You no go for Dead Creek. Him
be bad place for white man go shoot! ’'
he called out anxiously. “No be good
bird there and plenty fever!”

But the two men went on without

“How did the beggar know we were
going up Dead Creek? I didn’t know
myself,” Hodgins said suddenly.
“But perhaps this boy was talking to
him.” And he promptly forgot the
incident.

A N HOUR later, in bush kit again,
they found themselves sailing
down the creek, well supplied with
food and drinks provided from Mika

The creek was one of those isolated
backwaters that surround Duala, one
of the least attractive, too—a veri¬
table cesspool for odors, a gray,
stinking stretch of ugliness, infested
with crocodiles. Dense, low, impene¬
trable mangroves lined either bank.
Beyond the three villages no signs of
habitation were visible, although so
near the sea. Long before they
reached the great, sinister-looking
swamp, they saw the cottonwood
tree, standing like a gaunt, bare
skeleton, arms outstretched against
the sky. The bush ended ab¬
ruptly again some little distance
beyond, running off into swamp. It
was, as the men then surmised, in
reality a small island, surrounded on
three sides by snake-infested swamp,
and on the fourth by a swiftly rush¬
ing river. Certainly a choice spot on
which to hide treasure.

They' alighted and sent the canoe
off as Mika had directed, then pro¬
ceeded inland along a fairly well-
w'om but well-concealed path, till they
were under the cottonwood tree. The
rest of the day they dozed and
smoked, amused themselves watching

LEOPARD’S TRAIL

the little gray-faced monkeys mocking
them from the trees and the egrets
dashing like streaks of silver in
through the green, and listening to
the myriads of parrots screaming at
each other. The day was long, for
they were both suffering from the ex¬
citement that precedes the fulfilment
of a great quest.

It did not get dark till 8 o’clock,
and by that time they were both
chilled to the bone. Heavy, foul mists
were creeping up from the swamps
and a chill breeze was sweeping in
from the sea.

“Hope he’ll come soon!” Hodgins
said, as a blood-curdling roar of a
leopard rolled through the bush.
“That’s too near to be pleasant!”

“And we dare not even light a
fire!” Chisholm shivered.

The next moment they were re¬
lieved to hear the soft dip of paddles,
the abrupt grating of a canoe running
up on the sand, then low, hushed
voices. They hurried out to the wa¬
ter’s edge.

“That you, Mika?” Hodgins called
out.

“Yes, sir!”

In the gloom they could just dis¬
cern the old man’s figure standing cm
the bank. Another dark and naked
one was removing tools from the ca¬
noe and placing them upon the
ground. Mika gave hurried orders in
some native tongue and the canoemen
paddled off silently into the darkness.

Mika turned, handed them each a
spade, and led the way off through
the bush, remarking, “We must hur¬
ry! We have a good night’s work
ahead of us!”

He led on past the cottonwood tree
into dense bush. There was no path
now. They were pushing through
bushes and thorns that under ordi¬
nary circumstances would have
brought forth more than one oath, but
in their excitement they felt nothing.
Suddenly the cry of a leopard rolled

again through the bush, this time even
closer than before.

“I hope you brought your guns!”
Mika said rather nervously. "This
bush, being uninhabited, is the choice
haunt of many beasts of prey! ’ ’

“We’re all right,” Hodgins said
confidently.

“Ah! Here we are!” Mika ex¬
claimed.

He lit a match and held it up to the
trunk of a palm. The two men just
barely caught a glimpse of some rough
mark on it, when the light flickered

“Yes, here we are!” Mika said in
a voice trembling with eagerness.
“Now, after fonr long years, I am
about to see the fulfilment of m.v de¬
sire. Beneath you, gentlemen, some
four feet down, lies the treasure! ’ ’

They commenced digging at once.
It was a strange scene: the velvety
blackness of the tropical night, the
still denser gloom of the great forest
around them, the three dark figures
bent low over their spades. They
spoke little, but old Mika stopped
often to rest.

They had made a pit some three
feet deep when Chisholm suddenly
heard a muffled cry. He looked up
in alarm, but for the moment could
discern nothing distinctly. Then
gradually he made out the outline of
a monstrous, ferocious-looking animal,
standing erect, pawing in the air. He
saw Hodgins pitch forward heavily
into the pit—saw old Mika scrambling
away on all fours toward the bush.

Instinctively he felt for his revol¬
ver. Then he was conscious of a ter¬
rific blow on the back of his head. He

3

VJ/HEN he awoke he could re-
' ' member nothing at first. He felt
faint and weak. His eyes smarted.
His head swam and felt too big for
his body. He was conscious of a

56

WEIRD TALES

strangely repressed feeling. The air
seemed filled with great yellow and
black spots. Then things began to

He discovered that he was bound
tightly to a pillar. Thick strands of
fiber were wound around his body,
pinioning his arms close to his sides.
Another lot bound his legs and ankles.

He looked dazedly around him. He
was in a huge circular building, the
like of which he had never before seen
in all his wanderings in Africa. It
was evidently a temple of some kind.
Massive leopard skins covered the en¬
tire walls and ceiling, which was tent¬
shaped and held up by two highly-
polished mahogany tree trunks. The
floor was also covered with skins.
Great ivory tusks, perfect in form and
color, ribbed the walls at intervals,
and at the base of each flickered small
oil lights, casting strange shadows
around the room. On one side a great
leopard skin swayed softly in the
wind, and Chisholm surmised that
this was the door, but there appeared
to be no other opening. Opposite him
was a clay fireplace on which smoked
and sputtered a small flame. Beside
this, on a pile of skins, a grotesque,
black, naked figure squatted. He
might have been a statue, so inhuman¬
ly ugly and immovable he sat. The
whites of his eyes gleamed out star¬
tlingly, diabolically. As he saw Chis¬
holm staring, his mouth leered open,
revealing two long, hideous white
fangs in an otherwise toothless cavern.
He leaned forward, and monotonous-
1}’-, rhythmically, began to beat a tom¬
tom. Then he began a weird, nasal

“Ar—i—-ana—dum! dum! dum!

It nauseated Chisholm. He looked
wildly about him; then his gaze fell
upon Hodgins, only a yard or so
away, tied to another polished pillar,
and still unconscious. Hodgins’ head
hung limply to one side, his bare

body (for he was stripped to the
waist) covered with mud and blood.

After a time (an eternity it seemed
to Chisholm) Hodgins stirred and
opened his eyes, but for a moment he
acted as dazed as Chisholm had acted.

Finally he seemed to recognize Chis¬
holm. He gave a sickly grin.

“The real thing this time!” he
muttered hoarsely.

“And no chance of escape!” Chis¬
holm added gloomily.

The old devil in the corner had
ceased thumping his drum as they
commenced talking, and he now rose
and crept from the room. Outside
they heard again the weird leopard
cry, but now they understood.

“Old Two Fang’s giving the sig¬
nal !” Hodgins said grimly.

'T'HERE was a confused, sup-
■L pressed murmur at the door, as
from a gathering mob. Then the
great leopard skin was lifted and a
long line of the most terrifying crea¬
tures they had ever beheld entered
in single file.

Their black bodies were naked ex¬
cept for a massive leopard skin fas¬
tened across the chest and over the
right shoulder. Over their heads and
foreheads, too, were fastened the up¬
per portion of leopard’s heads, the
ears standing stiffly erect, the bushy
eyebrows hanging heavy over their
gleaming bloodshot eyes. On their
hands, fastened in an ingenious man¬
ner, were leopard’s claws, dripping
with blood as if fresh from an orgy.

Old Two Fang stood at the door,
monotonously thumping his drum as
they filed in, silent as ghosts. There
were more than fifty of them. The
room seemed overflowing as they all
squatted in a semi-circle around their
two victims. The room was stiflingly
hot and reeked of perspiration, a pe¬
culiar incense and (but perhaps this
was only fancy) warm blood.

LEOPARD’S TRAIL

After they were all seated, the tall¬
est Leopard, who had entered first and
was evidently their leader, stepped
out in front of the two white men. He
raised his hand and the tom-tom
ceased. The room was deathly still.
A hundred yellow-fringed, dark, sav¬
age eyes glared at the two victims.
Old Two Pang moved silently for¬
ward with a large Yoruba stool,
plated with gold. He placed this in
front of the leader. Next he brought
forward a great golden goblet and
placed it upon the stool ; then with a
low salaam he backed away to the

If a real leopard had suddenly
opened its mouth and spoken, neither
Chisholm nor Hodgins could have
been more surprized than when, the
next moment, the great savage before
them began in llawless English:
“Gentlemen, I suppose you are won¬
dering why you are thus honored?”

Neither of them attempted to an¬
swer, but both were conscious of a
sickly feeling, such as a fly must ex¬
perience as it watches a spider creep
nearer and nearer, playfully side¬
stepping as it comes.

He laughed, then went on lightly:
“You are about to participate in the
noblest, the most wonderful rite the
world has ever known. You are to be
highly honored. Your blood is to be
mingled with that of many martyrs
who have been chosen to lay the foun¬
dation for the great new African Em¬
pire. You are now in the hands of
the noble Leopard Society, which is
gradually reaching out its tentacles
over the whole world. Wherever the
despised black man has been ground
down under the tyrannical heel of the
white, there are we. We are the wor¬
shipers of blood. We live by blood.
Why? Because blood is life, brains,
power! On blood has every empire
of the world been built! Prance,
Russia, England, America, and now,
last and greatest of all, Africa, which

will soon dominate the world! The
white man shows us the way. We
have profited by his mistakes. Our
lands, our slaves, were wrested from
us in blood. Now we claim them back.
And for every inch of soil taken, for
every drop of blood shed, every blow,
every insult, every sneer, we take pay¬
ment —in blood!”

“You forget,” Chisholm said quiet¬
ly, “what is the policy of the British
government. For every white man’s
life ruthlessly taken, England de¬
mands the lives of a whole village!”

The native clenched his fists then,
and lost his smooth manner. Turn¬
ing toward his satellites he broke out
into what seemed a torrent of abuse
toward the prisoners. A low, omi-

they moved as if eager to spring up,
but in a moment the leader had cooled
down again and turned, smiling.

“ Do not trouble, my friends. Eng¬
land cannot punish what she does not
know. Two lonely men go off into
the bush, hunting or—what was it?—
prospecting for tin! They disappear!
Where? Ah! There are a million
swamps, rushing rivers, quicksands,
which they may have inadvertently
fallen into! They may perchance
have fallen prey to the wild beasts of
the forest—leopards, for instance.
Anyhow, they are gone. England will
send out a scout or two, but she has
no time to search the great bush. They
are gone. Alas! The government
will wire home condolences—then
will forget!”

His mocking words were only too
true, as both men realized. They did
not attempt to answer.

“Do not grieve, my dear sirs,” he
went on. “You came to seek gold;
instead, you are chosen to be a sacri¬
fice to the Leopard god, the god by
whose power the new and emanci¬
pated nation of Africa shall arise.
What greater honor could you wish
than to join the ‘noble army of mar-

WEIRD TALES

tyrs’ you sing about? Ah, yes, my
friends! You see I know your estima¬
ble Christian hymns. Do I not sing
them every Sunday in the mission
church?”

“But why choose us?” Hodgins
put in thickly.

“Wfiy? Ah, my friend, you were
chosen because you were foolish
enough to offend the great high priest
of the Leopard Society. Your friend
here was in reality the chosen victim.
He persisted in coming on to us, al¬
though warned by the way. Then we
knew that indeed our god must desire
his blood. As for you, well, if you
consort with fools you must share
their fate. And a double sacrifice is
always acceptable. ’ ’

“You lie!” Chisholm said hotly.
“X never harmed anyone in your
damned society.”

But a grotesque, wrinkled old
brown figure had suddenly arisen
from the ground and now came for¬
ward, pointing a long, skinny finger
toward them accusingly.

“No?” he jeered. “You did not
know that I was a high priest of the
Leopard Society. I was simply poor
old Mika Dodawa, the trader. Ha, ha!
And you paid me five hundred pounds
to bring you to your punishment. You
never wronged me, eh?”

His voice, trembling with rage,
now rose shrilly.

“No? You don’t remember Mika
Dodawa, perhaps. But you do re¬
member Yosadmu, the German spy,
whom you captured here in 1916 and
had shot, when you and your damned
troops marched in here. Well, he was
my son! And since then I have been
waiting—waiting!”

Chisholm stared incredulously. He
remembered distinctly Yosadmu, one
of the trickiest of spies, who had
served the Allies and Huns in turn
and whose death had been a good rid¬
dance to all.

“Yes, your blood will taste sweet
to me!” the old man went on gloat¬
ingly. “ Clever white man, who calls
us monkey and bushman! Now we
shall see what your blood and brains
look like, if they are any different
from ours after all!”

He was clawing now in front of
them with his sharp old talons as if
to rip their eyes out, but at a word
from the leader he quieted down. The
leader then, from the inside of his
leopard skin, drew out, to the amaze¬
ment of the captives, a surgeon’s
sealpel. A look of satisfaction crossed
his face as he saw their amazement.

“Yes!” he said, answering their
unspoken question, and giving a hid¬
eous grin. “It is a surgeon’s scalpel.
Very latest design. From New York.
You see we work scientifically, as our
lords, the white men, have taught us.
Do not fear I shall be clumsy or bun¬
gling in the operation. I was sup¬
posed to be a fairly clever surgeon,
the best of my year in London Uni¬
versity College. You may even have
heard of me—Dr. Joseph Brown, one
time house surgeon assistant at St.
Bart’s, London, at present assistant
surgeon of the Duala government hos¬
pital. Otherwise, Olowole Dodi, chief
of the Leopard Society!”

They watched him with horror-
filled eyes as he stepped nearer. In a
most professional manner he took a
piece of charcoal from his secret
pocket and marked a long straight
line across the lower chest of each of
the prisoners.

“This is the spot!” he said cas¬
ually. “The pancreas. AYe really do
not ask much, do we?”

He lifted up the golden goblet.
Chisholm saw him approach, saw the
glitter of the scalpel, but it was his
ear he touched. He was conscious of
a sharp pain, like the prick of a
needle. He could hear the drip, drip
of blood falling into the goblet. He
saw the chief move off toward Hodg-

LEOPARD’S TRAIL

ins—he was feeling faint—he closed
his eyes. When he opened them a min¬
ute later, the Leopard was standing
holding the goblet high above his head
and was calling out what seemed to
be a battle cry. Then he drained the
cup dry.

In an instant the mob was on its
feet, clawing, pushing, roaring, sav¬
age, intoxicated with the lust for
blood. Old Two Fang at the door beat
his tom-tom violently. The room was
in an uproar. Dancing, swaying,
chanting, they swept round and
round, growing madder every min¬
ute, till the leader suddenly called
a halt. They lined up in order then,
and swaying, undulating, they passed
out through the door. The chief was
last, and as he went he bowed low.

“One hour, gentlemen, to confess
your sins and send any messages home
to England—which, of course, will not
be sent!”

A WAVE of fresh air had swept in.

under the door skin as it was
lifted, reviving them somewhat. Chis¬
holm and Hodgins looked at each
other. Both were ghastly pale, both
with dripping ear-lobes! They did
not attempt to speak, for both felt the
hopelessness of the situation.

Outside the door, old Two Fang
continued his monotonous drumming.
It seemed to be hammering against
their brains. Farther off, now louder,
now fainter, came the weird, passion¬
ate chant of the Leopards, evidently
working themselves up into a frenzy
for the culminating sacrifice.

Chisholm was gazing critically now
at Hodgins’ bindings. Suddenly he
began straining wildly, frantically at
his own. He felt something give a
little around his ankles and redoubled
his efforts. But he was weak from the
blow and loss of blood, and after a
time he had to desist.

Hodgins had been watching the
struggle eagerly. “Try again, Chis¬

holm,” he said. “You’ve loosened
your ankles a little 1”

Chisholm strained at his legs again,
and this time he found he could move
his feet freely, but, try as he would,
the rope became no looser.

“No use!” he muttered. “It won’t.

He let his head sink upon his chest
and stared moodily down at his heavy
marching boots. He was trying to
realize that death was near, but only
silly, trivial thoughts would come, lit¬
tle fragments of happy days, a bit of
the Strand, a lunch at Simpson’s;
those boots, the day he had bought
them in Bond Street—nine pounds
he had paid for them and when he
had demurred the clerk, a funny dap¬
per little man, had said, “They will
last yon a lifetime, sir”;—and now—

The shrieks and wails of the Leop¬
ards were rising still higher. Chis¬
holm gave a sickly grin over at his
companion. But Hodgins -was staring
as if mesmerized, at something on the
floor. Chisholm’s eyes followed.

A dark, wooly head was slowly,
painfully pushing through an incred¬
ibly narrow aperture between the
skins and the floor; then came the
long, paint-smeared body, absolutely
devoid of covering, stopping, listening
every moment, bloodshot eyes fixed
fearfully on the door as if expecting
every moment to see someone rush in.

The two victims watched, half fear¬
fully, half hopefully. Then both gave
a gasp of astonishment as finally, fully
in, the native shot to his feet and
darted toward them.

“Niya!” Hodgins said feebly, for
in spite of the grotesque disguise he
at once recognized the boy who had
served him so long. But the boy did
not pause or even look at them. He
seized the bloody scalpel which still
lay on the stool and began deftly,
quickly, slashing at their bindings. It
was only when the two men both stood
free that he spoke.

GO

WEIRD TALES

: ‘ I save yon, massa! I be Leopard
but I no harm you! I tell you it no
be good to come for here. I send Mr.
Chisholm here a note all way up coun¬
try to tell him no come for here
but—”

He ceased abruptly and looked
around in terror. Outside the frenzied
wails had suddenly ceased and an
ominous silence descended.

‘‘Thej- come, massa, one time!”
Niva whispered frantically, and even
as he spoke the great Leopard
skin moved slightly. As quick as
lightning the boy leaped across and
took up a position alongside the door.
The next moment old Two Fang crept
silently in. As he glanced over at the
pillars and saw the two victims stand¬
ing free, he let his tom-tom fall to the
ground and opened his mouth to yell.
The next moment a blow from behind
sent him reeling to the floor.

Then Niya bent, lifted a corner of
the great skin, and peeped out.

‘‘No good, massa!” he called out
excitedly; “they come one time!”

His bloodshot eyes roamed wildly
around the room, up at the great
domed ceiling, down at the tiny aper¬
ture through which he had crawled,
then over at the tiny fireplace.

Outside, a solemn, weird chanting
had begun, accompanied by slow,
measured beats on the tom-tom, com¬
ing closer and closer each moment.

Hodgins and Chisholm looked at
each other. Fate was surely playing
strange tricks to bring release but not
escape. But Niya was frantically
tearing the great skins down from the
wall. Then he turned and threw them
toward the white men, and at once
they understood his plan. In a mo¬
ment they were decked up quite as
fantastically as any Leopard, the dirt
and blood effectually carrying out the
disguise of their faces. Then Niya
ran to the fireplace, pulled out a hand¬
ful of dried grass from the roof and
set it alight. In an instant the whole

place was a blinding, suffocating mass
of smoke. That was the last they ever
saw of the boy.

Chisholm felt Hodgins grasp his
hand, and together they made a dash
for the door. A lurid red flame shot
up, accompanied by a terrified wail
and a savage roar from the frenzied
crowd outside. Then a group of them
burst in to save the gold and ivory,
but in the general confusion it was
easy enough for the two white men
to dash out.

The air outside was dense with
smoke. The old dried timbers of the
temple were shooting off like rockets.
The crowd of Leopards was rocking,
swaying, wailing like madmen, the
glare from the flames making them
appear more diabolical than ever. But
Hodgins and Chisholm were not wait¬
ing to see spectacular sights. Hand
in hand they fled, like two hunted
animals, till they reached the kindly
bush, nor did they stop till they could
no longer see the red glare on the
trees, nor hear the blood-curdling
wails of the Leopards.

For the rest of the night they wan¬
dered on, waiting wearily for daj'-
light. Then, just as the first, faint
gray light began to steal down
through the trees, they stumbled upon
a fresh horror. They found them¬
selves in a large circular clearing,
walled in by a solid rampart of great
ivory tusks. In the center was an
altar, also built of tusks, and on this
lay the mangled, bloody form of a na,
tive. Masses of blood-stained yellow
fur lay all around.

Shuddering, they stumbled out and
crept back into the bush again. Then
suddenly they found themselves at
the river’s edge. Chisholm pushed
through the mangroves and looked
downstream to see if there was any
chance of escape. But he turned
quietly and crouched low.

“Hide, Hodgy, hide! Here they
come,” he whispered, and Hodgins
ducked down beside him.

HUNGER

By FRANK OWEN

A LL his life Mel Curran had
been hungry. He had never
-L A. known the pleasure of sitting
down to a good meal. Hunger is a rat
that gnaws at a man’s stomach as if
it were an empty, untenanted house
whose beams were sagging.

Mel Curran was not a credit to hu¬
manity, but then neither was human¬
ity a credit to him. He was under¬
sized, underfed, and his mind was not
normal. He believed that the dusk-
shadows of evening were haunted by
all sorts of weird ghosts and wraiths.
He was more credulous than a child.
He believed everything he heard,
everything that was told to him, no
matter how fantastic or preposterous.
He believed that night was filled with
creeping, crawling things, that sleep
was a dreadful state. Each night he
fought against it He subjected him¬
self to physical pain to escape the hor¬
ror of unconsciousness. He held the
lids of his eyes open so that the black
horror could not creep in. All night
long he kept a candle burning beside
his bed so that the whirling, plunging,
closing net of darkness would not
close down upon him. Sometimes he
groaned and shrieked in terror, and
the sounds of his anguish echoed
weirdly throughout the dank, cobweb-
draped cellar in which he dwelt. For
hours he would fight off the plague
of sleep, but eventually, inevitably,
from sheer exhaustion he would suc¬
cumb to it.

Another of his eccentricities was his
total vagueness regarding numbers.
To him “one”, “six”, “seven”, or
any other numeral was merely a word
without meaning, and not infrequent¬
ly his vision also became jumbled. He

would see the same man two or three
times at once. He never knew how
many men were walking toward him.
Sometimes it would be only one man
and he would appear like four, or, as
not infrequently happened, it would
be four men and they would appear
to him like one. There were times
when he walked smack into a person
because his distorted vision had taken
the person for a group. The same
phenomenon was true of buildings, of
trees, of automobiles, of stairways.
When he walked down a subway
stairs he walked as gingerly as if he
were walking on eggs, for it was as if
he were trying to descend several
flights of stairs at once and he was
unaware which he was really treading

His life was filled with horrors and
tragedies, with fears and desires and
dim hopes that never were realized.
But greater than all his desires was
the supreme wish for a good meal.
He was well past sixty, and very thin,
like a wisp of straw. He was very
tall, and his clothes were greasy and
green with age. His eyes always
shone fanatically and they bore a
searching, hunted, haunted look.
Sometimes he would spy a filthy crust
of bread by the curbstone. Immedi¬
ately he would rush forward and de¬
vour it as if all the people of New
York had perceived it also and were
pursuing it. Not infrequently the bit
of crust would seem multiplied to
four or five pieces, and he would
grovel and whine pitifully when he
could find only one. He was a famil¬
iar sight on the waterfronts, creeping
about like an ugly shadow, sinister,
ominous, dangerous, as if bent on

HUNGER

some uncanny, dreadful mission, and
yet his mission was purely an endless
search for food to appease the loath¬
some gnawing rat that was clawing at
his stomach—hunger.

O NE night he stood before a win¬
dow in a small restaurant on
South Street. The window was a
vault containing the most precious of
all jewels—food. He licked his dry
lips with his doglike tongue. In the
moonlight his teeth glistened like
fangs: the gums seemed drawn back
from them to permit greater ease in
chewing. In the window was a cold
boiled ham, a huge cake, a box of
strawberries and a few garnishings of
vegetables. But in his vision all this
was multiplied. There was enough
food for an army. His mouth watered
so that the froth dripped from his lips
at the comers. Everything on earth
was blotted out. He had found food.
He gazed furtively about to see that
no one was approaching. Then delib¬
erately he climbed up the side of the
door as if he had been a jungle beast.
It was quite easy to climb through the
huge transom above the door, which,
fortunately, was wide open. The next
moment he was in the restaurant and
the ham had been snatched from the
window. In his frenzy he crouched
upon the floor chewing at it as if he
were a dog. All caution had fled from
him. He fairly gloated over his prize,
grunting and growling with satisfac-

The restaurant proprietor dwelt
upstairs. He heard the commotion
and rose stealthily from his bed. He
seized a huge revolver, so large that
it appeared like a cannon, and crept
downstairs. Mel Curran on his knees
was fawning over the ham.

For a moment the restaurant pro¬
prietor gazed on him. Every nerve in
his body revolted at the sight. He

could not help shuddering. Then he
pulled himself together.

“Throw up your hands!’’ lie cried
angrily.

Mel Curran only whined and
chewed at the ham all the more fero¬
ciously. Then the revolver went off,
whether deliberately or accidentally
will never be known. Mel Curran
was not touched. But the crash of
the shot brought back to him a bit of
rationality. He realized that his pre¬
cious food was about to be taken from

With a cry of rage, he sprang to his
feet. He seized the first thing his
hand fell upon. It was an enormous
platter, a platter that must have
weighed a dozen pounds. With all
his force he brought it down upon the
intruder’s head. With a groan the
restaurant proprietor sank to the

Then Mel Curran returned to his
precious food.

He crouched over the huge ham as
if it were a child and he were intent
on protecting it.

The next moment the doors were
burst open and the street mob surged
in. It was headed by two burly po¬
licemen, who dragged him away from
all that was dearest to him on earth.

3

T WO months later, for the first
time in his life, Mel Curran sat
down to a feast fit for the gods, a
turkey dinner with all the usual Yule-
tide trimmings. There was cranberry
sauce, plum pudding, all sorts of
fruits and nuts, and an enormous
mince pie. He sat and ate slowly and
deliberately. For the moment his
vision was normal. First he ate to
appease the gnawing of the rat, then
he continued eating purely for his
own pleasure. At last the appetite
of his life was satisfied. When the
meal was finished, he drank three
cups of coffee and a glass of eider.

64

WEIRD TALES

Then he smoked a huge cigar. He
heaved a sigh of satisfaction. He
had not lived in vain.

When his meal was finished, he was
given a somber black suit. Wonder¬
fully content, he arrayed himself in
it. Everybody was trying to outdo
everybody else in being nice to him.
A chaplain came to see him. a man
whose face was truly beautiful—beau¬
tiful with a calm and restful peace.

“Have you anything to say, my
brother?” the chaplain asked in a
voice that was as soft as the wind
through the treetops.

“Nothing,” replied Mel Curran
contentedly. “That was the finest
meal I ever ate. I shall never for¬
get it.”

The chaplain placed his hand on
his shoulder and prayed aloud. It
was all very wonderful, Mel thought.
It seemed rather fine to have people
taking such an interest in him.

Then the gate of his cell was
thrown open and he was led to the
grim, gray chamber in which stood
the electric chair. He gazed upon
the scene blankly. He wondered

what they were going to do with so
many chairs. Without a word they
led him to the gruesome chair. He
sat down comfortably as if it were
good to rest after such an enormous
meal. He gazed at the little group
of spectators who sat grimly in a hud¬
dled bunch on one side of the room.
Their faces were chalklike in the
shadows. To him the score of people
seemed a multitude. And their gaze
was centered on him as if he were a
personage of prominence or an actor
in a splendid play.

Someone stepped forward and
placed a black cap over his eyes.

That was good. Now he could sleep.

Then other hands began fastening
buckles about his legs and other parts
of his body. That was very foolish.
He was not going away. He was go¬
ing to sleep.

Then the guards stepped back.
There was a moment of utter silence
—a silence so intense that it was al¬
most deafening. The next instant
the prison lights flickered dim. Then
bright again, then dim.

Mel Curran would never be hungry

THE BETTER CHOICE

By C. M. EDDY, JR.

This man contrived a machine that would revive the
dead, and killed himself to try out his invention. But as
he was being brought back to life, something happened

In WEIRD TALES for March
ON SALE AT ALL NEWS STANDS FEBRUARY FIRST

T HERE it lay on the desk in
front of me, that missive so
simple in wording, yet so per¬
plexing, so -urgent in tone.

Having spent the past three weeks
in bringing to a successful termina¬
tion a case that had puzzled the police
and two of the best detective agencies
in the city, I decided I was entitled
to a rest, so I ordered two grips
packed and went in search of a time¬
table. It was several years since I
had seen Remson Holroyd; in fact, I
had not seen him since we had ma¬
triculated from college together. I
was curious to know how he was get¬
ting along, to say nothing of the little
diversion he promised me in the way
of a mystery.

The following afternoon found me
standing on the platform of the little
town of Charing, a village of about
fifteen hundred souls. Remson’s place
was about ten miles from there, so I
stepped forward to the driver of a
shay and asked if he would kindly
take me to the Holroyd estate. He
clasped his hands in what seemed to
be a silent prayer, shuddered slightly,

then looked at me with an air of won¬
der, mingled with suspicion.

“I dun’t know whut ye wants to
go out there fer, stranger, but if ye’ll
take the advice o’ a God-fearin’ man
ye’ll turn back where ye come from.
There be some mighty fearful tales
concernin’ that place floatin’ around,
and more’n one tramp’s been found
near there so weak from loss of blood
and fear he could hardly crawl.
They’s somethin’there. Be it man or
beast I dun’t know, but as fer me, I
wouldn’t drive ye out there for a hun¬
dred dollars—cash.”

This was not at all encouraging, but
I was not to be influenced by the talk
of a superstitious old gossip, so I cast
about for a less impressionable rustic
who would undertake the trip to earn
the ample reward I promised at the
end of the ride. To my chagrin, they
all acted like the first; some crossed
themselves fervently, while others
gave me one wild look and ran, as if
I were in alliance with the devil.

By now my curiosity was thorough¬
ly aroused, and I was determined to
see the thing through to a finish if it
cost me my life. So, casting a last,
contemptuous look on those poor, mis¬
guided souls, I stepped out briskly in
the direction pointed out to me. How¬
ever, I had gone but a scant two miles

WEIRD TALES

when the weight of the valises began
to tell, and I slackened pace consid-

The sun was just disappearing be¬
neath the treetops when I caught my
first glimpse of the old homestead,
now deserted but for its one occupant.
Time and the elements had laid heavy-
hands upon it, for there was hardly a
window that could boast its full quota
of panes, while the shutters banged
and creaked with a noise dismal
enough to daunt even the strong of
heart.

About one hundred yards back I
discerned a small building built of
gray stone, pieces of which seemed
to be lying all around it, partly cov¬
ered by the dense growth of vegeta¬
tion that overran the entire country¬
side. On closer observation I realized
that the building was a crypt, while
what I had taken to be pieces of the
material scattered around were really
tombstones. Evidently this was the
family burying ground. But why had
certain members been interred in a
mausoleum while the remainder of the
family had been buried in the ground
in the usual manner?

Having observed thus much, I
turned my steps toward the house, for
I had no intention of spending the
night with naught but the dead for
company. Indeed, I began to realize
just why those simple country folk
had refused to aid me, and a hesitant
doubt began to assert itself as to the
expediency of my being here, when I
might have been at the shore or at the
country club enjoying life to the full.

By now the sun had completely slid
from view, and in the semi-darkness
the place presented an even drearier
aspect than before. With a great dis¬
play of bravado I stepped upon the
veranda, slammed my grips upon a
seat very much the worse for wear,
and pulled lustily at the knob.

Peal after peal reverberated
throughout the house, echoing and re¬
echoing from room to room, till the

whole structure rang. Then all was
still once more, save for the sighing of
the wind and the creaking of the shut-

A PEW minutes passed, and the
sound of footsteps approaching
the door reached my ears. Another
interval, and the door was cautiously
opened a few inches, while a head
shrouded by the darkness scrutinized
me closely. Then the door was
flung wide, and Remson (I hardly
knew him, so changed was he) rushed
forward and, throwing his arms
around me, thanked me again and
again for heeding his plea, till I
thought he would go into hysterics.

I begged him to brace up, and the
sound of my voice seemed to help him,
for he apologized rather shamefacedly
for his discourtesy and led the way
along the wide hall. There was a
fire blazing merrily away in the sit¬
ing room, and after partaking gen¬
erously of a repast, for I was fam¬
ished after my long walk, I was seat¬
ed in front of it, facing Remson and
waiting to hear his story.

“Jack,” he began, “I’ll start at the
beginning and try to give you the
facts in their proper sequence. Five
years ago my family circle consisted
of five persons: my grandfather, my
father, two brothers, and myself, the
baby of the family. My mother died,
you know, when I was a baby.

His voice broke and for a moment
he was unable to continue.

“There’s only myself left,” he went
on, “and so help me God, I’m going,
too, unless you can solve the damnable
mystery that hovers over this house,
and put an end to that something
which took my kin and is gradually

“Granddad was the first to go. He
spent the last few years of his life in
South America. Just before leaving
there he was attacked while asleep by

FOUR WOODEN STAKES

one of those huge bats. Next morning
he was so weak he couldn’t walk. That
awful thing had sucked his life blood
away. He arrived here, but was sick¬
ly until his death, a few weeks later.
The medicos couldn’t agree as to the
cause of death, so they laid it to old
age and let it go at that. But I knew
better. It was his experience in the
south that had done for him. In his
will he asked that a crypt be built im¬
mediately and his body interred
therein. His wish was carried out,
and his remains lie in that little gray
vault that you may have noticed if
you cut around behind the house.
Then my dad began failing and just
piDed away until he died. What puz¬
zled the doctors was the fact that
right up until the end he consumed
enough food to sustain three men, yet
he was so weak he lacked the strength
to drag his legs over the floor. He
was buried, or rather interred, with
granddad. The same symptoms were
in evidence in the cases of George and
Fred. They are both lying in the
vault. And now, Jack, I’m going,
too, for of late my appetite has in¬
creased to alarming proportions, yet
I am as weak as a kitten. ’ ’

"Nonsense!” I chided. "We’ll
just leave this place for a while and
take a trip somewhere, and when you
return you’ll laugh at your fears. It’s
all a case of overwrought nerves, and
there is certainly nothing strange
about the deaths you speak of. Prob¬
ably due to some hereditary disease.
More than one family has passed out
in a hurry just on that account.”

"Jack, I only wish I could think
so, but somehow I know better. And
as for leaving here, I just can’t. Un¬
derstand, I hate the place; I loathe
it, but I can’t g:et away. There is a
morbid fascination about the place
which holds me. If you want to be a
real friend, just stick around for a
couple of days, and if you don't find
anything I’m sure the sight of you

and the sound of your voice will do
wonders for me.”

I agreed to do my best, although I
was hard put to keep from smiling at
his fears, so apparently groundless
were they. We talked on other sub¬
jects for several hours, then I pro¬
posed bed, saying that I was very-
tired after my journey and subse¬
quent walk. Bemson showed me to
my room, and, after seeing that every¬
thing was as comfortable as possible,
he bade me good-night.

As he turned to leave the room the
flickering light from the lamp fell on
his neck and I noticed two small punc¬
tures in the skin. I questioned him
regarding them, but he replied that
he must have beheaded a pimple and
that he hadn’t noticed them before.
He again said good-night and left the

I UNDRESSED and tumbled into
bed. During the night I was con¬
scious of an overpowering feeling of
suffocation—as if some great burden
was lying on my chest which I could
not dislodge; and in the morning,
when I awoke, I experienced a curious
sensation of weakness. I arose, not
without an effort, and began divest¬
ing myself of my sleeping suit.

As I folded the jacket I noticed a
thin line of blood on the collar. I
felt my neek, a terrible fear over¬
whelming me. It pained slightly at
the touch. I rushed to examine it in
the mirror. Two tiny dots rimmed
with blood—my Mood—and on my
neck! No longer did I chuckle at
Remson’s fears, for it, the thing, had
attacked me as I slept!

I dressed as quickly as my condition
would permit and went downstairs,
thinking to find my friend there. He
was not about, so I looked about out¬
side, but he was not in evidence. There
was but one answer to the question.
He had not yet arisen. It was 9
o’clock, so I resolved to awaken him.

WEIRD TALES

Not knowing which room he occu¬
pied, I entered one after another in a
fruitless search. They were all in
various stages of disorder, and the
thick coating of dust on the furniture
showed that they had been untenan¬
ted for some time. At last, in a bed¬
room on the north side of the third
floor, I found him.

He was lying spread-eagle fashion
across the bed, still in his pajamas,
and as I leaned forward to shake him
my eyes fell on two drops of blood,
splattered on the coverlet. I crushed
back a wild desire to scream and shook
Remson rather roughly. His head
rolled to one side, and the hellish per¬
forations on his throat showed up
vividly. They looked fresh and raw,
and had increased to much greater
dimensions. I shook him with in¬
creased vigor, and at last he opened
his eyes stupidly and looked around.
Then, seeing me, he said in a voice
loaded with anguish, resignation, and

“It’s been here again, Jack. I
can’t hold out much longer. May God
take my soul when I do!”

So saying, he fell back again from
sheer weakness. I left him and went
about preparing myself some break¬
fast. I had thought it best not to de¬
stroy his faith in me by telling him
that I, too, had suffered at the hands
of his persecutor.

A walk brought me some peace of
mind, if not a solution, and when I
returned about noon to the big house
Remson was up and around. Together
we prepared a really excellent meal. I
was hungry and did justice to my
share; but after I had finished, my
friend continued eating until I
thought he must either disgorge or
burst. Then, after putting things to
rights, we strolled about the long hall,
looking at the oil paintings, many of
which were very valuable.

At one end of the hall I discovered
a portrait of an old gentleman, evi¬
dently a Beau Bnimmel in his day.

He wore his hair in the long, flowing
fashion adopted by the old school, and
sported a carefully trimmed mustache
and Vandyke beard. Remson noticed
my interest in the painting and came
forward.

“I don’t wonder that picture holds
your interest, Jack. It has a great
fascination for me, also. At times I
sit for hours studying the expression
on that face. I sometimes think he
has something to tell me, but of course
that’s all tommy rot. But I beg your
pardon, I haven’t introduced the old
gent yet, have If This is my grand¬
dad. He was a great old boy in. his
day, and he might be living yet but
for that cursed bloodsucker. Perhaps
it is such a creature that’s doing for
me; what do you thinkf’’

“I wouldn’t like to venture an
opinion, Remson, but unless I’m bad¬
ly mistaken we must dig deeper for an
explanation. We’ll know tonight,
however. You retire as usual and I’ll
keep a close watch and we’ll solve
the riddle or die in the attempt.”

Remson said not a word, but silent¬
ly extended his hand. I clasped it in
a firm embrace and in each other’s
eyes we read complete understanding.
To change the trend of thought I
questioned him on the servant prob-

"I’ve tried time and again to get.
servants that would stay, ’ ’ he replied,
“but about the third day they would
begin acting queer, and the first thing
I’d know they’d have skipped, bag
and baggage.”

That night I accompanied my
friend to his room and remained until
he had disrobed and was ready to re¬
tire. Several of the window panes
were cracked, and one was entirely
missing. I suggested boarding up
the aperture, but he declined, saying
that he rather enjoyed the night air,
so I dropped the matter.

As it was still early, I sat by the
fire in the sitting room and read for
an hour or two. I confess that there

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WEIRD TALES

He glanced questioningly toward
me, but followed my command with¬
out argument. I turned and cast my
eye about the room for a suitable
weapon. There was a stout stick ly¬
ing in the corner and I made toward

“Jack!”

I wheeled about.

“What is it? Damn it all, haven’t
you any sense, almost scaring a man
to death!”

He pointed a shaking finger toward
the window.

“There! I swear I saw him. It
was my granddad, but oh, how dis¬
figured!”

He threw himself upon the bed and
began sobbing. The shock had com¬
pletely unnerved him.

“Forgive me, old man,” I pleaded;
“I was too quick. Pull yourself to¬
gether and we may get to the bottom
of things tonight yet.”

I handed him my flask. He took a
generous swallow and squared up.

When he had finished dressing we
left, the house. There was no moon
out, and it was pitch dark.

I LED the way, and soon we came to
within ten yards of the little gray
crypt. I stationed Remson behind a
tree with instructions to just use his
eyes, and I took up my stand on the
other side of the vault, after making
sure that the door into it was closed
and locked. For the greater part of
an hour we waited without results,
and I was about ready to call it off
when I perceived a white figure flit¬
ting between the trees about fifty feet

Slowly it advanced, straight toward
us, and as it drew closer I looked, not
at it, but through it. The wind was
blowing strongly, yet not a fold in the
long shroud quivered. Just outside
the vault it paused and looked
around. Even knowing as I did about

what to expect, it was a decided shock
when I looked into the eyes of the old
Holroyd, deceased these past five
years. I heard a gasp and knew that
Remson had seen, too, and recognized.
Then the spirit, ghost, or whatever it
was, passed into the crypt through
the crack between the door and the
jamb, a space not one-sixteenth of an
inch wide.

As it disappeared, Remson came
running forward, his face wholly
drawn of color.

“What was it, Jack, what was it!
I know it resembled granddad, but it
couldn’t have been he. He’s been
dead five years!”

‘‘Let us go back to the house,” I
answered, “and I’ll do my best to ex¬
plain things to the best of my ability.
I may be wrong, of course, but it
won’t hurt to try my remedy. Rem¬
son, what we are up against is a vam¬
pire. Not the female species usually
spoken of today, but the real thing.
I noticed you had an old edition of
the Encyclopedia Brittanica. If you’ll
bring me volume XXIV I’ll be able
to explain more fully the meaning of
the word."

He left the room and returned, car¬
rying the desired book. Turning to
page 52, I read:

Vampire. A term apparently of Servian
origin originally applied in eastern Europe
to blood-sucking ghosts, but in modem
usage transferred to one or more species of
blood-sucking bats inhabiting South Amer-

soul of a dead man which quits the buried
body by* night to suck the blood of living
persons. Hence, when the vampire's grave
is opened his corpse is found to be fresh and
rosy from the blood thus absorbed. . . . They
are accredited with the power of assuming
any form they may so desire, and often fly
about as specks of dust, pieces of down or
straw, etc. . ... To put an end to his
ravages a stake is.driven through him, or
his head cut off, or his heart tom out, or
boiling water and vinegar poured over the

pires are wizards, witches, suicides, and

FOUR WOODEN STAKES

the death of anyone resulting from these

hellish throng. . . . See Calumet’s “Dis¬
sertation on the Vampires of Hungary.”

I looked at Remson. He was star¬
ing straight into the fire. I knew that
he realized the task before its and was
steeling himself to it. Then he turned

“Jack, we’ll wait until morning.”

That was all. I understood, and
he knew. There we sat, each strug¬
gling with his own thoughts, until the
first faint glimmers of light came
struggling through the trees and
warned us of approaching dawn.

Remson left to fetch a sledge ham¬
mer and a large knife with its edge
honed to a razorlike keenness. I
busied myself making four wooden
stakes, shaped like wedges. He re¬
turned bearing the horrible tools, and
we struck out toward the crypt. We
walked rapidly, for had either hesi¬
tated an instant I verily believe both
would have fled incontinently. How¬
ever, our duty lay clearly before us.
Remson unlocked the door and swung
it outward. With a prayer on our
lips, we entered.

As if by mutual understanding, we
both turned toward the coffin on our
left. It belonged to the grandfather.
We unplaced the lid, and there lay
the old Holroyd. He appeared to be
sleeping; his face was full of color,
and he had none of the stiffness of
death. The hair was matted, the mus¬
tache untrimmed, and on the beard
were matted stains of a dull brownish

But it was his eyes that attracted
me. They were greenish, and they
glowed with an expression of fiendish
malevolence such as I had never seen
before. The look of baffled rage on
the face might well have adorned the
features of the devil in his hell.

Remson swayed and would have
fallen, but I forced some whisky down
his throat and he took a grip on him¬

self. He placed one of the stakes di¬
rectly over its heart, then shut his
eyes and prayed that the good God
above take this soul that was to be de¬
livered unto Him.

I TOOK a step backward, aimed
carefully, and swung the sledge
with all my strength. It hit the wedge
squarely, and a terrible scream filled
the place, while the blood gushed out
of the open wound, up, and over us,
staining the walls and our clothes.
Without hesitating, I swung again,
and again, and again, while it
struggled vainly to rid itself of that,
awful instrument of death. Another
swing and the stake was driven

The thing squirmed about in the
narrow confines of the coffin, much
after the manner of a dismembered
worm, and Remson proceeded to sever
the head from the body, making a
rather crude but effectual job of it.
As the final stroke of the knife cut the
connection a scream issued from the
mouth; and the whole corpse fell
away into dust, leaving nothing but a
wooden stake lying in a bed of bones.

This finished, we despatched the re¬
maining three. Simultaneously, as if
struck by the same thought, we felt
our throats. The slight pain was gone
from mine, and the wounds had en¬
tirely disappeared from my friend’s,
leaving not even a scar.

I wished to place before the world
the whole facts contingent upon the
mystery and the solution, but Remson
prevailed upon me to hold my peace.

Some years later Remson died a
Christian death, and with him went
the only confirmation of my tale.
However, ten miles from the little
town of Charing there sits an old
house, forgotten these many years,
and near it is a little gray crypt.
Within are four coffins; and in each
lies a wooden stake stained a brown¬
ish hue, and bearing the finger prints
of the deceased Remson Holroyd.

Author of “When We Killed Thompson ”

E NEVER did get to Grimes’
sehoolhouse that night.
Personally, I have had the
most delicious and satisfying thrills
of wickedness every time I have
thought of that evening and its at¬
tendant events. The thrills have not
been scarce, for I have thought of it

I believe sincerely that none of us
felt wicked or conscience stricken at
the time. Hunkydory, at least, knew
that we were shielding an escaped
prisoner with a murderous reputation.
I have never been quite so sure what
Dicky Birch thought or knew about it.

I remember it chiefly as a time
when, for about four gloriously hor¬
rible hours, I felt as if my entire ali¬
mentary canal were frozen stiff and
never would thaw out. Pear always
inserts a drawstring or a dose of
frappe alum-water at the pit of my
•stomach.

There was to be (and probably
was, though, as I say, we didn’t get
to it) a “spelling” at Grimes’ school-
house that night. Grimes’ was the
next district to ours, about two miles
away. Pap had grudgingly consented
that I might go to it. with Dieky
Birc-h, who lived just beyond the edge
of our big bottom meadow, beside the
Dug Road. I had hurried through
with the milking, wood-carrying and

other chores, had swallowed a big sup¬
per in a manner that would have
scandalized Horace Fletcher, blacked
my boots, and had gone down to the
meadow gate by our sehoolhouse,
where Dicky was to meet me. He
answered my whistle immediately,
there in the dusk by the wild plum
tree, and we started. We were in
great feather, leaping high, as four¬
teen-year-olds will when released for
a few sweet, short hours from iron-
handed paternal surveillance.

We followed the path, single file,
our boots clumping noisily down the
hill and our eager chatter waking the
echoes as we went. Along the line-
fence between our meadow and the
weed-patch that might have been
the shiftless Allards’ meadow we
marched. Dicky, who was ahead, sud¬
denly let out a fine beginning for a
loud yell, which sank and perished
in his throat like a death-rattle.

I was beside him by then, for I
could not have kept back. I am the
kind of coward that wins undying
fame in battles, for fear paralyzes my
reverse and turning gear and makes
me go forward. Dicky and I were
facing a ghastly, blaek-stubbled coun¬
tenance with blue lips, and a convul¬
sively-working Adam’s apple in a
scraggy, unkempt and collarless
throat. But the thing that definitely

AN UNCLAIMED REWARD

held us (though hardly less than that
fascinating face itself) was a large,
bine-steel revolver grasped with won¬
derful steadiness in a hairy hand that
protruded from a too-scant coat-
sleeve. I can see the large wrist-
joints yet, their points white from the
rigidity of his grip.

“You—you fellers,” panted the
voice, hoarse and shaking with min¬
gled fear and desperation, “you fel¬
lers come with me. I ain’t goin’ to
take no chances on it a-gittin’ out

We obeyed and crept along stealthi¬
ly through the deepening dusk, at the
point of that blue-nosed gun. I asked
Dicky about it just once afterward
(we whispered it when we were alone
in the woods far from human habita¬
tion) if he had ever thought of
Grimes’ schoolhouse again that even¬
ing, and he solemnly assured me that
he hadn’t.

I cannot say we were unhappy in
our captivity. It was the first real
thrill that had ever invaded either of
our prosaic, hay-pitching, cattle-feed¬
ing, chore-enslaved lives. It was a
yellow-back dream come to realization.
We cooned the peeled pole that served
as a line-fence water-gap across Jesse
Lick, and kept straight on toward
Hunkydory’s place. Once Dicky’s
foot slipped and he looked around,
whimpering in terror and with fear-
popped eyes, lest our captor think he
was trying to desert. The man almost
smiled as he realized how little danger
of resistance was to be anticipated
from us. We were completely subju¬
gated.

VX/HEN we were separated by
' » nothing but a willow-thicket and
a stake-and-rider fence from Hunky-
dory’s house and carpenter shop, the
man motioned with his gun, and he
reconnoitered while we cowered like
well-trained bird-dogs in the long

“Coast clear,” he muttered, more
to himself than to us. “Go on, you
kids, and don’t try no funny stuff oi¬
l’ll fill ye full o’ holes while you’re
climbin’ th’ fence—hah!”

It was a combined gasp and cry of
terror, cautiously muffled. A hound’s
musical note rang suddenly out of the
stillness near by. The hound was so
close we could hear its snorting snuffle
as it nosed the trail. The man froze
in his tracks, and turned such a color
as I never before or since have seen.
Dicky and I knew very well it was
only Ab Allard’s black-and-tan bitch,
old Belle, trying to pick up the tem¬
porarily lost trail of a mink that lived
near the creek. But it was five age¬
long minutes before the strange man
seemed to breathe again and relaxed
enough to indicate his desire that we
continue our forced march.

A dash across the big road and we
were at the door of the carpenter
shop. Nobody had seen us from the
road, and Hunkydory, with his fam¬
ily, was eating dinner by the dim
coal-oil lamp in the one room of the
cabin adjoining. They were wran¬
gling noisily as they ate, like pigs
squealing around the trough, so they
didn’t hear us as we entered. But
before the stranger could drop the
hasp (a heavy wooden thing) into the
slot, to fasten us in, Hunkydory him¬
self was heard approaching. He left
his front door and started into his
darkened shop with a half-shaved ax-
handle in his hand. We all shrank
back into the shadows that were no
more silent than we—for by now we
boys were sympathetically deep in the
spirit of criminality.

Hunkydory approached his work¬
bench. As he did so, he looked sus¬
piciously about at the impenetrable
shadow's. He was between us and the
window, so we could see him easily.
He fumblingly picked up a piece of
sandpaper by the vise, and as he did
so the stranger sprang like a puma
and grabbed him. Hunkydory’s in-

74

■WEIRD TALES

voluntary and instinctive cry of sur¬
prize was strangled in his whiskery
whisky-gullet by one hairy hand while
its mate held that respect-compelling
gun before the popping and rheumy
eves. A harsh voice, low and horribly
distinct, said: “Not a cheep, old man!
Not a damn cheep! ’ ’

We boys thrilled in sympathy with
our captor-hero (for such by now he
had become) and our fingers twitched
toward the old man's throat, as the
claws of a kitten work while the moth¬
er-cat demonstrates the kill for her
offspring’s education. Such resent¬
ment as we had ever had was utterly

As soon as Hnnkydory was released
and his breath had returned, the gos¬
sip-loving, scandal-monging old ras¬
cal’s loquacity revived. The adven¬
ture was walnuts and wine to his
humdrum-surfeited soul.

“I know who you arc,” he whis¬
pered ecstatically. “Brother Ab was
in town today an’ he tole”—

“Hush! You know too damn much.
You know any more an’ I’ll choke ye
to death,” hissed the stranger, in un¬
assumed melodramatic style. “Now
you keep your face shet an ’ keep quiet
in here. Is your folks expectin’ you
back—will they hunt ye ? ”

“No,” whispered Hunkydory with
great delight. “I’d started over t’
Ab’s t’ finish scrapin’ this hannel.”

“All right. We’ll lay low a while,
an ’ if them dawgs don’t show up, you
fellers’ll show me th’ way to th’ Gulf.
I ’ve missed it somehow'. ’ ’

“The Gulf” was a place such as
was without a duplicate in all south¬
ern Ohio. An almost impenetrable
forest covered and filled a canyon
whose walling cliffs, some hundred to
two hundred feet high, almost met at
the top. In some parts of it, the sun
shone in for only a few minutes each
day, as down a chimney—an ideal hid¬
ing-place. It lay about three miles
from Hunkydory’s.

We stayed in Hunkydory’s shop
two mortal hours. Once, in the dis¬
tance, we heard the baying of hounds,
and there w'ere several of them. None
was the voice of old Belle, either.
They were dogs whose voices Dicky
and I and Hunkydory had never
heard before. The four of us drew
near to each other and all chilled at
the sound. As it grew nearer for a
few minutes and one bell-like note
sounded with especial clearness, we
all seized each other convulsively. Not
one of us knew, at that moment, which
of us was the criminal. But the
sound of the hounds died out, and all
grew quiet as the grave.

At length we started. Hunkydory
peeped out stealthily at first. The
stranger peeped out next, and after a
careful reconnaissance we ventured
forth like four dusky ghosts into the
silent, star-strewn night, soft-footed
as wolves—four primitive fugitives
grown from the terror and the need
of one. The gun was needed no longer,
but the stranger carried it in his
hand. We went of our own fascina¬
ted, hypnotized impulse. Had the
hounds come then we should all have
run and clung and, if need be, fought
together in common cause against a
common enemy.

Past Brook’s and Bennett’s and
Harper’s and Aleshire’s we fled—al¬
ways toward the Gulf. Now and then
came the yap of a wakened yellow
eur. Once we hid in a creek-bed un¬
der a culvert while a pack of fox¬
hounds swept by, belling lustily like
a canine cyclone, within a hundred
yards of us. Then we went on.

TUST as we had struggled up a
J shingly hillside sparsed over with
broom-sedge in clumps of brown, and
darkly dotted with baby pines and
huckleberry bushes, the stranger came
close to the three of us and said:

“You fellers stop here a minute. I
want to go in there. Don’t leave!”

AN UNCLAIMED REWARD

75

And he pointed to a cabin only a
few yards away, half in the shadow of
the first fringe of the woods that
merged into the Gulf.

We nodded our heads and saw him
disappear against the blackness. Then
a door was opened, and we saw, sil¬
houetted by a dim firelight, a woman
in her night-clothes, who had come to
the door in answer to a whippoorwill
call from outside. We saw two white
arms fly about a portion of the dark¬
ness, and through the opening, while
the door was still ajar, we heard sobs.
They were not all a woman’s sobs,
either. There were deeper, harder,
more rasping sobs from a throat to
which sobs were less frequent visitors.
Such sobs!

Then, and for the first time, we felt
the impulse to desert. It was from no
defection in loyalty, and not altogeth¬
er from fear. We had forgot that. It
was only that feeling of delicacy—a
this-is-no-place-for-me feeling—which
male creatures know in the presence
of a sob-wrung fellow male who is in
the arms of his mate. But once the
spirit of retreat was upon ns. nerve-
strained as we were, it swept us as had
the other feeling up to a few minutes

Hunkydory whispered:

"Let’s skedaddle, boys!”

And we skedaddled. Fear returned
as we retreated. Many a time had I,
heard Hunkydory complain of short¬
ness of breath and a “misery” in his
side or some kindred ail when he was
being paid to help Pap in the harvest
field. He could never rake and bind
wheat behind the cradle more than
half an hour at a time without being
threatened with a “smotherin’ spell.”
But that night we two lusty boys had
hard work to keep his pace. A deer
in the full flush of buekhood would
have known next day it had been
somewhere, had it attempted to stay
with him on that journey home. A
grayhound would have had little on

Hunkydory that night in the way of
speed and lightness and staying pow¬
ers, as we thTee, the grizzled old sot in
the van, ran like perspiring and silent
moonbeams back along the trail we
had so recently trod.

We left Hunkydory at his carpen¬
ter shop door. For the first time we
noticed he still had the half-shaved
as handle and the piece of sandpaper
with him, though he hadn’t even
known it himself.

Dicky and I started home. When
we got to the separating place, we
dung to each other. I wanted Dicky
to go home with me, but he objected
because he would have farther to go
alone afterward. He wanted me to
take him home, but the same argu¬
ment held good. We shuddered to¬
gether for quite a while and then, as
with one fear-bom impulse, we jerked
violently loose from each other and
ran like sheep-killing dogs in our op¬
posite directions.

I can feel that homeward trip yet.
An icy hand was reaching for my
back, all the way, and so nearly get¬
ting me that a frozen emanation from
it kept me chilled. I shuddered into
bed, and nothing but youth and phy¬
sical exhaustion put me to sleep. Once
in the night—or did I dream it!—
came again the belling of strange
hound voices, rising and falling, now
clear, now muffled, as the trees and
hillocks intervened or removed them-

And I cowered closer.

Next day Hez Bradley brought a
Cincinnati Enquirer home from town.
It had one heavily headlined dispatch
with our county seat's date line on it,
reading in substance as follows:

Ed Raffin, of Jackson township, who was
confined in the county jail pending his ex¬
ecution for the murder at Hsrry Mortimer,
is at large, or was at midnight. Ratlin, it

charge of first degree murder for having
made away with Mortimer when the latter
was superintending the construction of a

The Flaming Eyes

A Complete Novelette
By FLETCHER R. MILTON

On Sale At All News Stands February First

B ETWEEN banks heavily
draped with long, flat slough-
grass and overshadowed by
lambent-leafed cottonwoods, the
greenish waters of the slow-moving
creek seemed utterly devoid of life.
The Kansas sun poured a flare of
somnolent heat directly upon the flac¬
cid bosom of the lazy stream, inten-
sifying the shadows behind the fringe
of dry grass and making of them the
only cool, damp retreat in the whole
region. There was no wind; and
scarcely a ripple where the tips of
the rank, overhanging growth cut
the water with an almost inaudible

Close above the water, and close-led
by his sharp-lined shadow, hovered a
silent snake doctor intently studying
the sluggish current in search of any
infinitesimal morsel of food that
might be drifting there. His bright-
blue, black-banded wings of delicate
gauze threw him into sharp contrast
with the rest of the drab picture.

But in the black shadows along the
soggy banks, and below the murky
glaze on the surface of the water, life
teemed in its mysteries and its myriad
forms, giving the lie to outward ap¬
pearance.

A repulsively incongruous alligator
turtle, of impregnable size and armor¬

ing, watched with evil intent the slow
but gradual approach of a school of
brilliant-hued sunfish. King of the
creek was he, with his spiked coat and
horn-crested helmet. He feared no
denizen of his world, and but for his
massive clumsiness he would soon
have cleared it of all life but his kind,
for nature had created him almost
invulnerable but had also placed re¬
straint upon his voraciousness.

In a world where one life exists by
preying upon another, this paradox
must ever be true: each inhabitant
must have some protection to prevent
entire extinction, and each must have
some special dispensation by which
he may subsist through breaking down
the protective barriers of the others.

However, beneath the edge of a
tangle of drift, in the deepest part
of the torpid stream, yet another pair
of glassy eyes watched with canni¬
balistic intentions: watched for an op¬
portunity to prey upon some weaker
member of his watery domain;
watched for a lowering of the bar¬
riers; a big catfish, with bristling
whiskers and slowly gaping mouth,
seeming fairly a part of the snarl of
roots and twigs in which he was am¬
bushed. The sharp spines on either
side of his massive head were ready
for instant defense, or for slaughter.

WEIRD TALES

if his needs pressed him to attack the
larger specimens of the water tribes.
With his white belly buried in the
slime and his black back blending with
surrounding shadows, the marauder
felt secure in his hiding place.

If further proof were needed to re¬
fute the appearance of lifelessness in
the stagnant creek, it could be found
beneath a flat ledge protruding from,
and lying close to, the muddy floor
of the stream. Here a mother craw¬
fish was incessantly on guard over her
large family of ever-hungry young¬
sters; guarding but always watching
for the opportunity to dash out and
seise an unsuspecting minnow to
throw it into the midst of the squirm¬
ing multitude of claws. Her protrud¬
ing eyes saw everything that hap¬
pened in the neighborhood. Her pow¬
erful pincers were ever alert to pro¬
tect her brood, or to nip the life out
of an unwary prey as food for them.
But in spite of her formidable arma¬
ment of claws and crusty shell, in
spite of her ability to scuttle back¬
ward through the water like a flash
of living red light, she dared not sally
forth in search of a victim while the
monster “snapper” remained in the
vicinity.

A SLIGHT but startlingly sudden
splash broke the stillness of the

A long, lithe body had dived from
a low-hanging limb of the stunted
cottonwood tree that struggled to re¬
tain a root-hold on the steep bank.
The sound was barely audible, but all
of the denizens of the creek knew its
portent and sought to snuggle closer
in their respective dens. Even the
powerful alligator turtle folded his
tail and legs a bit closer beneath his
parasite-laden shell and drew his hor¬
rid snout back until he could scarcely
see what was taking place in the dim
light about him.

There was but a momentary dis¬
turbance of the surface as the brown

water moccasin slipped into the water,
and no waves or ripples indicated her
passage along the sandy bottom near
the center of the creeping current.

The swimmer was a full-grown, fe¬
male water snake of the common
brown type, harmless as to venom but.
very powerful and extremely vicious
when attacked. Doubly feared by the
creatures of her world because she
could take to the earth, trees, or
water with equal facility, bred of the
water and reared of the earth as she
was, and now fearfully respected by
the whole animal kingdom, her
younger days had been spent in a
continual fight for existence.

At the age of three years and full-
grown she was now a careless swim¬
mer making her way gracefully up¬
stream unmolested. Scarcely visible
from the surface, washed clean of the
dried mud with which she had dis¬
guised herself while lying on the mud-
gray limb of the cottonwood, she pre¬
sented a strikingly beautiful appear-

After swimming several rods, she
came to the silky surface for a breath
of air and a survey of the surround¬
ings: the latter for the purpose of
making certain there were no lurking
dangers on either bank of the creek
or in the trees above it. She had
learned in her younger days to be for¬
ever on guard against hidden foes, in
the water, in the air, or on land. She
paused to float idly a moment while
trying to locate a possible source of
food for which a litter of forty
squirming youngsters were constantly
clamoring. It frequently happened
that she could obtain this food with¬
out the hours of patient waiting for
a frog or fish to pass her perch on a
projecting limb or log.

Momentarily the brown-banded
moccasin floated with the impercepti¬
ble current: then, with a powerful
flirt of glistening tail, she proceeded
more swiftly upstream, on her way
to the nest of husky young ones she

80

AVEIRD TALES

to the nest wherein she had left her
family two hours ago.

But all was not well at home; even
before she attained the sandy retreat,
the brown moccasin sensed something
wrong and wriggled desperately
through the tangled undergrowth,
still holding the partly swallowed
perch. The sibilant rustling of her
tail as it switched the dead leaves
spread a tense, ominous atmosphere
through the surrounding jungle. A
huge beetle ceased his labors; with
staring eyes a gray field mouse scam¬
pered hastily away; a speeding king¬
fisher sent down a raucous note of
derision; the dazzling blue dragon-fly
skimmed the tops of the grass and
weeds on soundless wings, but evi¬
dently watchful.

In the stiff sand adjoining the snake
nest were innumerable footprints that
told the story only too well; they said
as plainly as if they had spoken that
a large blue heron had feasted there,
carefully picking and choosing accord¬
ing to his fancy.

At least half of the baby moccasins
were gone completely; not more than
a score remained, crawling aimlessly
around the little hollow that had been
their home. These seemed distraught
and knew not which way to turn. The
mother took in the situation at a
glance, for this was not the first time
that such a thing had happened to
her household.

Without more ado she gulped furi¬
ously at the partially engulfed sunfish
until the last of it had passed in a
swollen lump through the narrows of
her neck. No thought of feeding the
family now; only to get away with
them to some other locality as quickly
as possible. As soon as the task was
finished, the anxious mother set about
swallowing the young moccasins, one
at a time in rapid succession; in fact,
so great was their anxiety to reach
a place of safety that the little fel¬
lows could not wait their turns but
crawled, two and three at a time,

down the constricting throat of their
mother. This had always been tlieir
custom when terrible danger hovered
near, or when the parent had decided
it was moving day.

When the last youngster was stowed
away, the female moccasin, heavy with
babies, slipped through the grass and
literally fell down the eroded bank
behind the dense fringe of slough-
grass. Without pausing, she threw
herself out into the open waters of
the sun-scorched creek, where she
turned her head down stream. She
swam slowly, ungracefully, with
never a backward glance to the scene
of her multiple tragedy. Nor did her
undulating sides present the attrac¬
tive picture they had when she ar¬
rived. The life-filled pouch stretched
the beautiful designs of her banded
brown coat into grotesque, irregular
shapes and almost colorless splotches.

F OR a mile, the laden snake swam
and floated, drifted and swam, by
jutting sand-bars, around slow bends
past other sections of grass-fringed
banks. And here the same deference
was granted her by the inhabitants
of the region; they moved aside and
permitted her to pass unquestioned,
content merely to stare stolid-eyed
after her.

As she floated, the brown moccasin
kept her eyes roving from bank to
bank in search of a place that suited
her. At last she turned in at the foot
of a long slope parallel to the stream
and leading to a high bank overlook¬
ing the water. With much difficulty
she managed to climb out upon the
muddy ledge, and laboriously she
made her way up the long slope.

Below lay a deep, circular pool of
midnight blackness in the shade of a
huge weeping-willow. High above, a
startled jay screamed sarcastically.
To the back, a eareful rustling in the
rank growth of willow sprouts indi¬
cated that some creature was cau¬
tiously withdrawing from the neigh-

THE BROWN MOCCASIN

borhood. Here the tired mother snake
would be fairly safe; from here she
could make an instant, long dive to
the depths of the pool if it became
necessary to flee from terrestrial at¬
tack ; and far enough from the water
to be safe from amphibious enemies.
Here she could disgorge her young
and clean them with sundry wipings
and coiling embraces.

But before the disgorging process
was well under way the brown moc¬
casin reared her flattening head in his¬
sing anger. A peculiar, nauseating
scent had been wafted to her, faint
and indefinite as to source and prox¬
imity. She could not tell yet whether
to fight or to flee. To be on the safe
side she merely waited in silence, pre¬
pared for either event. The emanator
of the odor was either a deadly enemy
or food.

Soon a vigorous stirring in the dead
vegetation above and beyond her
caused the brown moccasin to whirl
quickly in that direction.

Out of the grass and leaves
squirmed a waddling, sleek, slimy
creature all mottled with bright yel¬
low spots on a satiny hide. His frog¬
like snout and round eyes instantly
branded him harmless to the tauten¬
ing snake; in fact a certain air of
helplessness enveloped him. His
stubby fingers, destitute of claw or
talon, marked him an easy victim to
a determined enemy.

He ambled forth stupidly. Cocking
his bright, innocent eyes first to one
side, then to the other, he approached
the slowly-coiling serpent good-na¬
turedly and with an apparent desire
to be friendly.

The brown moccasin lowered her
head, while a simulated guilelessness
seemed to envelop her. She lay per¬
fectly quiet and watched the simple-
minded intruder approach. Such an
ignorant fellow! Such trusting sim¬
plicity! Why should she fear him?

As he approached, a sinister tauten¬
ing of her muscular body should have

warned him of impending danger.
But the mud puppy was so trustful
and innocent; he meant harm to no
one and therefore thought that no one
meant harm to him.

With all of his innocence, the size
and shape of the salamander denoted
his age as being past the inexperi¬
enced stage; it had been two years
since he had ceased to live entirely
in the water and had taken to blun¬
dering around in the damp, soggy
places of the earth, eating nothing
more exciting than flies, beetles, moths
and other small insects. His experience
with danger had been manifold and
he should have known better than to
waddle deliberately into this deadly
peril, with his eyes open, as it were.

Like the common toad, the salaman-
dria urodela is as harmless as he is
ugly. His only method of defense is
floundering. Having no teeth or
fangs, he takes his food with a long,
glutinous tongue which he ejects from
his mouth with incredible swiftness
to engulf the insect victim. It seems
these could avail him not in a life and
death struggle with a powerful ser-

The brown moccasin merely waited
for the salamander to approach with¬
in easy striking distance; no glint of
mercy in her hypnotic stare or flicker¬
ing black tongue.

The afternoon shadows were grow¬
ing longer, and a bright blue snake
doctor circled above the twain like an
omen, a silent witness to the coming

The open jaws of the savage snake
shot out and closed over the mud
puppy’s head before he realized the
significance of the vibrant hiss that
accompanied the action. A moment
he lay in passive surprize, apparently
acceding to the sucking contortions
of the snake.

But the salamander was not such an
easy victim after all. His thick fore¬
legs spread wide apart in stubborn
resistance to the sucking jerks of the

F IRST let me verbally paint the
picture, create mentally, if I
may, the atmosphere of the room
in Edwin Salen’s home.

It was large—surprizinglv large
for a bedroom—so large that there
was almost a hint of the feudal about
it—so large that the comers were
shrouded in the velvet of shadows,
slinking along its walls in impalpable
nebulae of gloom.

Not that it was gloomy—it was or¬
dinarily light, airy, a work of interior
decorative art, as exquisite in its set¬
tings as the chamber of some magnifi¬
cent, rosily lined casket constructed
for the keeping of a rare and priceless
gem—as indeed one may presume it
was in Salen’s mind.

That Salen had married late in life
was due to the vague wanderlust that
had kept him a virtual expatriate for
years, had sent him prowling into the
strange places of the earth, foot-loose
and alone.

Yet, when he returned at length to
his native shores and met the major
passion of his life, he knew it, and he
had prepared his house for her recep¬
tion, making the heart of all its many
beauties this room.

There was a touch of his other
years about it, a subtle blending of
oriental and occidental things. It
showed in the long, many-paned
French windows, in effect not unlike
the native houses of Nippon, with

their smoothly sliding screens; in the
paneling of the walls with silken
fabrics in softly harmonious tones,
many of them indeed works of
oriental artistry, such as may be
found in the shoji of some shozoku —
the dwelling of some patrician of Ja¬
pan—things exquisitely painted or
embroidered, with sprays of plum and
cherry blossom, gorgeous in their
glowing beauty, yet as delicate as the
impress left on the tissue of a brain
by some half-remembered dream.

It was furnished in a gray wood,
as soothing to the eye, as soft in its
clear grain, as the silk of the decora¬
tive panels: bed, dressing table,
chairs, a chest of drawers. And the
rug on the floor was rose—a thing the
color of morning, or the heart of a
delicate sea shell.

Such is the background of the pic¬
ture, to be washed over by a half veil
of shadow, before the foreground is

Those shadows must lurk in the
comers deeply, must creep out toward
the rays of a single half-screened light,
close by the bed, in which is a wom¬
an’s form. She is a blond, with a cer¬
tain beauty that, as one can feel at a
glance, is in harmony with the ap¬
pointments of the room.

Two other figures now, and the pic¬
ture is done.

First, that of a second _ woman,
white-clad, with a hint of crisp stiff-

WEIRD TALES

ness in her garments and the cap on
her head: a nurse, the vigilant night
watcher of modem civilized life,
which is assailed by sickness.

Second, that of a man, tall even in
his seated posture, dark-haired; a
watcher also, with a face which his
watching and the necessity for it has
left strangely drawn; Edwin Salen,
watching the features of the woman’s
head on the pillow out of dark eyes,
the expression of which is strained.

That, then, is the picture, if you
can see it; the screened glow of the
electrolier highlighting it, diverted
from the eyes of the sleeper, falling
vividly upon the nurse’s garments,
striking upon the face of Edwin Salen
and playing with its haggard lines.

H E HAD sat there for many hours,
as on many other nights and
days, ever since Laura had grown
seriously ill. He had crept silently
into this room of airy lightness, where
now the shadows lurked.

At first he had come with a certain
confidence that this was no more than
a temporary need, that ere long med¬
ical skill and careful nursing would
turn back the creeping tide of weak¬
ness that had suddenly assailed her
life.

But of late he had come with a
growing dread of impending disaster,
and sat and watched as now he was
watching, very much as one might
watch the flickering of a single candle
in momentary danger of being blown
utterly out.

The thing had come unexpectedly
upon her. What physicians he had
summoned had spoken learnedly to
him, something of vital forces and
their functioning—things he but half
understood. It was the harder for
him to understand, because he and
Laura had been happy; the crowning
glory of that happiness had seemed
the hour in which he had known that
she was to become the mother of his
child.

And now—Edwin Salen was afraid.
The thing showed in the set lines of
his mouth, the tension at the comers
of his eyes, as he turned them now
and then from the face on the pillow
toward the shadows beyond it. To¬
night he had almost the feeling that
those shadows were like wolves just
beyond the circle of some firelight,
waiting—waiting to creep close.

He was tired, worn in mind and
body, yet he felt that he must not
close his eyes, even though the nurse
had urged him tonight, as on the
night before it, to seek his bed. In
the past days he had taken intervals
of rest, of course. He had crept to his
own room and thrown himself down
for a few brief hours of sleep. At
such times, Yamato, his Japanese
valet, had worked over him with a
skillful touch, applying to his weary
body those tricks of massage that
seemed always to revivify it in some
strange manner and endow it with at
least a temporary renewal of strength.
The man had come to him shortly
after he had met Lanra, and had been
invaluable to him in many ways, but
in none more so than in the present
crisis of his life.

Abruptly he stiffened, at the faint¬
est sound of movement from the bed.

Laura had turned her head, and
she was smiling.

He leaned a little forward, with
his hot, tired eyes upon her lips.

The lips parted. “ Beautiful—oh—
so very beautiful!” they framed bare¬
ly audible words.

The nurse rose, and stood regard¬
ing the sleeper. Salen sat watching.

Laura Salen’s brows contracted
slightly. The smile faded. Her eyes

“Ed!”

He reached her swiftly, bent above

“Yes, dear—what is it?”

“I want them—oh. Ed, I want

Jra^32?.isrts

||

Kslli 1

“Did I?”

WEIRD TALES

“I—I wish I could describe it so
you could see it,” she went on after a
little pause. “It was so beautiful,
that when I saw it, I thought I put
out my hands to take it up. But one
of the men prevented my doing so,
and there seemed to be a sort of hor¬
ror in his eyes, and those of the rest.
They spoke among themselves softly.
I couldn’t understand what they said,
but in some way I seemed to know
they were speaking about me, my ap¬
pearance, my eyes and hair. And
then the man who had kept me from
touching it turned and bowed and
spoke to me directly:

“ ‘It is for me to tell the honorable
lady that this toward which she has
put out her hand is the kimono of—
death!’ ”

“The kimono of—death}” Salen
repeated in a voice as sharply rasping
as the rustle of dead leaves, and broke
off with a sibilant intake of breath.

“Yes.”

Laura Salen’s eyes dwelt upon
him, and in their depths was the light
of a great love.

“And it struck me as very odd, and
I asked him what he meant. He told
me that what he had said was true,
that if one were so strongly attracted
to it that she desire to wear it, and
did so—that one died.

“And then I asked him why, if that
were true, it should have been made
such a beautiful, beautiful thing.

“He bowed low again, still with his
hands crossed, and he said: ‘Because,
honorable lady, there are times when
death is the most beautiful thing in
life, as when one is very tired—or to
live would mean a great sorrow. ’ And
there was something in the way he
said it, which, despite the strangeness
of his words themselves, made me feel
as if they might be true.

“So I asked him why, if to put on
the kimono would mean death, he had
shown it to me, and he answered:

" ‘Because, augustness, it is yours
to choose. For when the time of dy¬
ing comes, there shall be brought
forth the death robe, and it were not
our part to name the hour wherein it
shall be put on or refused.’

“And it was then, Ed, that you
took my hand and held it, and I
looked at you and smiled. And I
think I spoke your name, and opened
my eyes, and found you bending over
me, and looked up into your face and
told you I wanted the beautiful flow¬
ers, I suppose. It was a strange
dream, wasn’t it, dear?”

“Yes,” said Edwin Salen in a
husky whisper.

“And—it was such a beautiful,
beautiful robe! I’m glad it was only
a dream, dear. It would have been
hard to leave it—to go away and leave
it, in real life.”

“Laura!” Salen’s voice quivered
like a taut string. “But—you did
leave it, dearest!—you made your
choice!”

"Yes, dear, I—made my choice,”
she said slowly. “But it was strange
—what he said about death being the
most beautiful thing in life. Do you
suppose I dreamed that because I’ve
been sick so long?—because I’m
tired?”

“Perhaps.” Salen’s tone was
throaty with emotion. “Don’t think
any more about it. Try and go to
sleep again, and—rest.”

“You, too,” she suggested. “You’re
worn out with all the watching.”

“Tomorrow,” said Salen.

She closed her eyes. After a time
her breathing told him that she slept.

He drew back his chair slightly and
again took up his vigil.

By-and-by the nurse, no longer
hearing voices, returned on tiptoe, but
he did not move.

T HE kimono of death. Salen was
not superstitious, though he knew
many superstitions. Yet now as he

THE MAGIC OP DAI NIPPON

sat there he found himself dwelling
on the words. The kimono of death.
Why had she dreamed of such a gar¬
ment—a thing so beautiful that it
made its putting on or leaving off a
matter of ehoiee? Why, by what
thing or complex of things, had the
dream been inspired? He tried to
piece it. out in the cold measure of
analytical reason. She had said she
was tired. His heart quivered; his
throat took on a dull ache. She might
well be that, but was that it? Per¬
haps. as he had agreed with her before
she fell again asleep, it had been a
contributing cause. She had said the
dream place had been not unlike her
own room. He had told her many,
many things of his wanderings before
their marriage. That had no doubt
helped out. Then, too, she could
scarcely have failed to catch the note
of watchful waiting that had charac¬
terized the nights and days, the
gravely quiet attitude of the physi¬
cians, the twelve-hour change in
nurses, his own presence there beside
her, so very, very often, when, as to¬
night, she had waked. Those things
had possibly furnished the motive of
death—this grim and ceaseless battle
wherein so much depended upon what
he had onee heard ealled “the will to
live,” upon her own desire to go on
living. A tremor shook him like a
heavy chill. She had said she was
tired. What if—? He held back his
own breathing behind suddenly tight-
locked teeth, ratting forward in order
to hear her breathe.

The rhythm of it came to him in
regular reassurance. He leaned back.
That was nonsense—the result of
jangled nerves. Tomorrow, as he had
promised, be would have Yamato give
him a rub, and sleep for a few hours,
and be a new man. Only now it was
odd how silent everything had be¬
come. It was odd how loud the whis¬
per of her breathing ran through the
room. It was odd how the shadows
beyond the lamplight seemed trying

to press in. It was an odd dream—
odd how the fellow had said that in
all life death might come to appear
the most beautiful thing. That was
symbolism, the uncanny, indirect
means of expression so much in vogue
in the Orient. It was odd how she
had managed to get it into her dream
—to catch the full flavor of it. It
meant—well, it meant that the most
beautiful thing in life might come to
be its end—the most desired, the most
wished for. It—it might be like that
with him if—Laura were gone. He
turned dull eyes toward the nurse.

She sat motionless, with folded

“Beautiful—”

He started. Laura had spoken, and
now as he sat up sharply, yet without
sound, she spoke again:

“Beautiful—the most beautiful
thing—in life.”

Salen lifted himself to his feet with
a single unwrithing movement. He
knew—he understood, that she was
dreaming the thing again. She was
dreaming it—and—

As the nuise rose, he reached the
bed.

“Laura,” he voiced her name
tensely, yet softly. “Laura.”

She did not answer. There was a
strange, intent expression creeping
across her face.

Watching that growing rapture, it
came to Salen that he must wake her
—rouse her, bring her back to a reali¬
zation of his presence there beside her
—to a realization of—life.

He touched her.

“Give it—to me!”

As if his touch had but served to
bring the climax, she lifted herself,
sat up. Her arms rose, stretched out.
Her eyes, wide, unseeing, seemed yet
staring at something invisible, intan¬
gible to any save herself. They were

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R. GRAY shook his head.

“I don’t understand it at
all. Physically, the man is
perfectly all right. If he would just
let us take that contraption off his
head— ”

He turned to the wasted figure on
the bed and again cautiously
stretched forth a hand. But, as be¬
fore, the instant his fingertips touched
the queer helmet the old man slatted
violently away.

“I told you, sir,” quavered a serv¬
ant. “Mr. Krieg has said time and
again that the thing must never, un¬
der any circumstances, be removed ex¬
cept by himself. Our regular doctor
and I started to take it off once a few
years ago when master had a spell
’most as violent as this, and he became
terribly angry. He made us promise
not to try it again, ever.”

“But what kind of a thing is it,
anyway? Why has he lain here all
these years with it on his head?
What’s it for? Didn’t he ever tell
you?”

“Oh, no, sir. He has guarded its
secret very carefully. I don’t know
what it’s for, but between you and
me, sir, I have an idea. I think it’s
something that might be a blessing to
anyone bedridden almost all his life,
like master. It’s something that makes

him dream, and see and hear things;
that’s what it is!”

“Bosh!”

“Why, he lies there a-wearing that
dingus, sir, and going through the
funniest actions imaginable. Of
course he can’t move very much, but
he has managed to worm himself all
over that bed, a-hollering sometimes,
with his face working with every pos¬
sible emotion, just like a person’s at

“Does he keep it on every minute?”

“When he first began to use it, Mr.
Krieg wore the headgear only through
the day, taking it off at night when
he slept. Then he got to sleeping days
and lying awake with it nights. But
it wasn’t long before he began to leave
it on day and night for weeks at a
time, sleeping at all sorts of odd
hours. Soon he got so far gone in the
habit, or whatever it is, that he re¬
fused to take the apparatus off at all.
It must be five years now since any of
us has seen any more of master’s face
than just the lower half. Why, sir,
I’ve forgotten what color his eyes are!

“Though never so bad as this one,
he has had awful spells many times
in the past. I don’t know, sir; I—I
don’t hardly want to take that dome
off him. You know he may get over

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T^RIEG summoned a servant and

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WANDERLUST BY PROXY

here myself. My secret is safe. Now
before I go any farther I shall demon¬
strate to your satisfaction that I am
not eras}-. I want you to put on these
goggles and look out a window. The
lenses are only plain glass, and those
two little screen-fronted boxes sur¬
mounting them won’t obstruct your

“Well, dear me, Mr. Bakke, you do
look quite distinguished in them. How
do I look?’’

Krieg was settling the helmet over
his own head. It completely covered
his ears and eyes, and even part of
his nose. Imagine Bakke’s astonish¬
ment then, when the old man con¬
tinued: “Well, you certainly have
the advantage over me. I look far
from distinguished—a little bit sim¬
ple, I fear. Are you surprized? My
dear sir, I see myself perfectly. In
fact, if you will step to the window.
I shall prove that I can see every¬
thing you can!

“Let’s see; you are at the window
right behind my head, are you nott
Um-m-m. There goes a laundry wagon
—the South Chicago Wet Wash.
Ha, Ha! Poor Bakke! Isn’t that a
pretty child there picking my dahlias 1
Oh, you frightened her away. But
probably you are wearing a pretty
frightful expression, eh? You know
I can’t see your face, or at least no
more of it than the tip of your nose
when I look down. Keep it well pow¬
dered, Bakke; don’t let it get red

“Do you know those goggles have
ears, toot They have, and a sense of
smell, too. I can hear the light tap¬
ping of that loose telephone wire out¬
side the window, and I can smell the
flowers on the stand under your nose
—our nose, I might say. Yes, those
goggles have three senses, all rolled
into a single ray, and I could easily
arrange two or maybe three senses
more. But any additions are not es¬
sential to my purpose, and besides,

they might make our little toys com¬
plicated.”

Krieg removed the helmet.

“Well, Bakke; do you begin to get
my idea?”

“I’m beginning to, yes,” Bakke
gasped. “But I don’t believe I un¬
derstand just why you chose me.”

“I picked you because, since to all
intents and purposes yon are to be
me, I want an exact replica of myself.
And you are the man; you are like
me physically and, more important
still, mentally. You have the same
thwarted desires. But now the world
is bright for both of us. Mr. Bakke,
I want you to take my name and wan¬
der where fancy leads.

“Carry my senses tip and down the
world!”

S AVU, in the South Seas! Soft,
radiant moonlight on a blue-white
strand; gentle lapping of waves; per¬
fume of great, exotic blooms; hushed,
sad-sweet strains of stringed instru-

Krieg, by proxy, stood on a little
eminence overlooking a tiny crescent
of bay. Directly ahead lay the sea
and the moon-path; to the left twin¬
kled the fires of a native village,
whence came an occasional faint balk
of a dog or a gust of sensuous music;
to the right stretched an expanse of
beautiful, lightly swaying, feathery
fronds. All his life the old man had
longed for them, those ancient sirens
of the lotus-eater. Palm trees by
moonlight.

A slow, sobbing breath uplifted
him, an exalted smile overspread his
features; tears of sublime, long-de¬
ferred joy ran down his cheeks.

In a sunlit room in Chicago a puz¬
zled servant wiped the moisture from
a smiling, half concealed face.

The man in bed didn’t care; let
them think him crazy. He knew now
what joy was to be his. In the past
weeks he had had demonstrated over

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100

WEIRD

TALES

crazed man, impelled by a raging
thirst, had begun to stir about. Joy
of joys, he had found the pile amid¬
ships to be made up of provisions, and
among these was fresh water. In the
sweet pleasure of wetting his crack¬
ing throat, Krieg had almost forgot¬
ten the plight he was in.

But in the weary days that followed.
Krieg had had time to consider well
his situation. From dawn until dark
the castaway had searched the seas,
and not a smudge nor shred of smoke
or sail had ever shown itself. Sense
of direction he had none, and all
Krieg had known of his position was
that he was far out of any traveled
lanes. He had long since begun to
ration himself carefully.

When his present freebooting
friends had stumbled upon him,
Krieg’s provisions had been on the
very point of exhaustion.

piRATES in the China Sea. Monks
A in Alpine passes. These Krieg
knew, and was unsatisfied.

Desperate forgetfulness in dives of
Argentine. Softly reminiscing strolls
on Scottish moors. Still the feverish
urge to move on persisted, and Krieg
covered all the globe.

But stay!

Was Thaddeus Krieg, the little old
invalid harmlessly demented over the
half of a diver’s helmet, a world trav¬
eler? A score of witnesses—servants,
nurses, doctors—can testify he was
not. They will tell you the frail fig¬
ure had never once left the bed to
which the man had been confined
since his youth. These would not
stoop even to scoff at such a silly idea.
Reliable witnesses they, because—
they lack imagination.

But what shall we say, who know?
To be sure, the man’s body had lain
there all these years; but when we
say Thaddeus Krieg, do we mean that
shell? What is a person? Is it so
much meat; or is it a sentience?

Years of utter concentration in the
life of the helmet had taken from the
man all consciousness of the bed-
bound, immobile flesh. To him Krieg
of Chicago was dead. Only Krieg of
the world existed.

Imagine a resurrection! Two took

The first had occurred in Hong-
Kong, where Krieg. after having
slipped over the Laundry Ticket’s
filthy side one night, had found him¬
self stranded. Funds he must have,
but how to get them? The proxy
Krieg had hesitated, resolved to make
the thing as shortly painless as possi¬
ble, and spoken:

"Thaddeus Krieg, send money.”

The bewilderment! Whose voice
was that? His own? Of course, but
—or now, was it? What did it mean,
anyway? How—? And then, like a
staggering blow, had come the restora¬
tion of a forgotten self. The jangling
shock—the pain!

The other resurrection came about
years later, while the wanderer was
lingering in Mombasa.

Krieg had come here, as he had
visited all those other units of his
world neighborhood, at the goading
of a demon ever pointing onward. His
appetite for far-spaced sips of life
had long since been sated. Now he
traveled only in search of peace—of
some waxing flame of interest to cau¬
terize the sore at his heart.

Sometimes when a vista of coral key
or crag-bordered fiord would awaken
a response in the cold breast, he had
imagined the past was dead. Other
times, and glint of sun on rippling
black hair or cadence of tropic-soft¬
ened voice had told him the wound
was still there. Those times the man
had plunged himself to the depths in
whatever forgetfulness was at hand.

Sunk thus we find him at the time
of the second restoration. The phe¬
nomenon this time is not so easily

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iSPiiSISSI

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WEIRD TALES

Krieg caught himself smiling grimly
as he thought of the dressing down
the savages must have got those years
before when they had let the white
man go. Paali must have suffered,
too, for her part in the affair.

Bv present appearance, the black
chieftain did not intend to let the cap¬
tive escape another time. The party
had arrived at the village. Amid the
wildest confusion of shrill, naked chil¬
dren and yappy mongrels, they were
heading straight for a large post
driven into the ground.

Now everything moved with busi¬
nesslike dispatch. While men busied
themselves with tying their prisoner
firmly to the stake, women and chil¬
dren vied with one another in collect¬
ing brush and fagots to pile around
the man.

When all was in readiness, Blwoma
approached from a detached, folded-
arm dignity and breasted insolently
up to the captive. He made as if to

sweep the hated goggles from the
man’s brow; then, apparently dis¬
daining to touch the things, once more
he spat upon them. Turning, he
snatched from a lieutenant a blazing
brand and cast it at Krieg’s feet.

This, then, was the end!

But why was he so calm ? This was
death—slow, horrible! But was he
not ready for death! His desires of
years had been satisfied; he had at
last known the life he had wanted.
What more could he ask than so fit¬
ting a death?

The man who was two could die
happy!

H AVING finished the demolition
of the “devil’s contrivance”. Dr.
Gray turned to cover the dead man’s
face, and stopped transfixed.

Over the face so lately distorted in
pain had stolen an ineffable, tired hap¬
piness, like a child gone to sleep with
his toys.

The

DEATH BOTTLE

By VOLNEY G. MATHISON

A Tale of Crime, and the Sea, and the fate of Black Sigurd

In WEIRD TALES
Next Month

On Sale At All News Stands February First

T HE real estate agent was volu¬
ble in the extreme. He was a
plnmp, dapper, self-important
little man, not unmindful of the honor
that had fallen upon him in the hand¬
ling of so important a piece of prop¬
erty as that now under discussion.
His volubility did not always bear di¬
rectly upon the subject in hand, but
that did not greatly matter, since the
price had been named and in three
minutes they would be on their way
for a careful inspection of the fine
old Tndor house and parklike
grounds.

Stannard was doing his best not to
look pleased; he meant to be diplo¬
matic in the matter and betray no sur¬
prize at what he considered the ex¬
treme reasonableness of the price. He
did not wish to appear too obviously
satisfied, but his elation over the pro¬
spective purchase betrayed itself in
spite of himself.

Fenton, who had accompanied
Stannard as interested friend and ad¬
viser, was leaning forward in an at¬
titude of absorbed and flattering at¬
tention while the real estate agent
talked. Penton had a round, child¬
like countenance expressing such ex¬
treme good humor that it was inevita¬
bly expected of him that he should

remain polite and attentive when oth¬
ers’ patience had worn a bit thin. Ac¬
cordingly Penton listened and Stan¬
nard refleeted, and as he reflected, the
expression of surprize and pleasure
he had made so futile an effort to
conceal, gradually diminished of its
own accord. Presently he interrupted,
sharply and without apology.

“The fact is,” he asserted, “it is
the very reasonableness of the price
asked that makes me hesitate. It
would almost suggest that there might
be something undesirable about the

The real estate agent stooped to re¬
move a thread from his boot laces and
examined it long and critically before
he saw fit to respond almost reproach¬
fully, “As we are about to make an
exhaustive inspection of the place this
very morning, you will have ample
opportunity to decide that for your¬
self. Personally, I may say that it is
iu my estimation the most absolutely
desirable property in the state, and
did it fall to me to decide whether or
no it should he my purchase, the de¬
cision would take but a short time,

“True,” returned Stannard dryly.
“But there are occasionally matters
which do not appear on a casual in¬
spection.”

103

106

WEIRD TALES

Mr. Austin smiled blandly, but a
slight flush of annoyance spread over
his pleasant features.

“True,” said he, “there certainly
was ‘something about a cat.’ It was
an ordinary, scrawny black cat which
the servants used to meet scurrying
through the dark passages of the up¬
per floors. The disturbing thing about
it was that the poor creature had
about its neck a bit of frayed cord,
and (you know the credulity of serv¬
ants) it reminded them unpleasantly
of the fate of the unhappy former
owner of the place.”

“I know that there are persons who
have a peculiar horror of cats,” sug¬
gested Stannard.

“A good many persons had a hor¬
ror of this particular cat,” conceded
Austin dryly.

“Well,” persisted Stannard,
“couldn’t you keep the creature
out!”

“That, it appeared, could not be

“How did it get in?”

“Nobody was able to discover. In
fact there wasn’t any way for it to
get in.”

“Did you look yourself for its
place of entrance 1”

“I did.”

Stannard smiled his incredulity.

“I think under the circumstances,”
he suggested suavely, “I should have
shot the cat.”

Mr. Austin hesitated. Then, “The
fact is, sir. we did shoot the cat. The
butler followed it out one night and
shot it. He left it lying dead beside the
rear entrance and in the morning it
had disappeared; that evening one of
the servants met it scurrying through
an upper corridor, with a bit of
frayed cord dangling about its neck.”

Stannard rose, smiling.

“Your butler was not a very good

shot,” he commented. “And you
mean to tell me that you have actually
left that remarkable place because of
this trivial annoyance*”

Mr. Austin regarded him coldly.
“I believe I have already stated, sir,
we left the house because of a sudden
decision to go to Europe for an in¬
definite stay.”

“Ah,” returned Stannard. “and I
reap the benefit of your decision.”

O N THE way home Stannard was
in high spirits.

“Well, well, so that is the nigger
in the woodpile!” he laughed. “It
doesn’t take much to throw a hysteri¬
cal family into a panic once some sug¬
gestion of the supernatural has been

Stannard wished to lose no time in
establishing himself on his new do¬
main. With two or three rooms made
habitable he could be on hand to di¬
rect a certain amount of redecorating
that was to be done, and also he was
impatient of any delay in actually
taking possession. Fenton was to be
his guest.

“You wouldn’t leave me alone in
that house, with the possibility of
coming face to face with a cat at any
moment!” he protested jokingly.

Fenton answered, “I am not going
to leave you alone to shoot nine lives
out of the same cat; I’d rather make
sure by taking a few shots myself.”

The two men spent the first evening
together in the great living room, to
which they had succeeded in impart¬
ing an air of agreeable domesticity.

Fenton alternately read and lis¬
tened to the beat of the rain; he had
no wedding in the autumn to look
forward to and consequently consider¬
ably less to occupy his mind.

Suddenly Stannard roused himself
and sat upright.

“Fenton,” he said, “someone looked
in at that window just now.”

Fenton appeared a bit doubtful.
It was not a night on which anyone
would choose to go traveling about a
house in the country to which no con¬
ceivable business could call him at
that hour of the night. For a

FOR SALE—A COUNTRY SEAT

107

while both men sat alert, waiting to
hear the ring of the front door bell.

But there was no summons from
any belated visitor and Fenton re¬
turned to his book, leaving Stannard
once more to his revery. It was late
when they went upstairs to the room
which they were to occupy together.
They slept well, that is, except for
one incident in the night, which after
all was not very disconcerting, though
it was singular—they both admitted
that it was really quite singular.

Stannard had been awakened to
find Fenton sitting upright in bed.

“What on earth is that?” said Fen-

Stannard looked and presently be¬
came aware of a soft, glowing light,
somewhat nebulous in appearance,
moving leisurely across the end of the
room beyond the foot of the bed.
Slowly it passed before them, turning
after a while till it seemed to be stand¬
ing by the side of the bed.

“Why, it’s—it’s looking at us,”
laughed Fenton. To Stannard it
seemed that the laugh was rather ner-

After a moment’s pause this singu¬
lar appearance returned slowly by the
way it had come, and disappeared.
Fenton rose somewhat sheepishly and
closed the door.

“What was it?” he asked.

“That,” answered Stannard brisk¬
ly, “was the reflection from the lamps
of a passing automobile.”

Fenton considered. It was perfect¬
ly evident that no automobile could
by any possibility throw a light into
that particular room even if it were
likely that one were passing on Stan¬
nard’s private driveway at that late
hour of the night. But there was
little use in arguing the question and
presently they were both sleeping
soundly and well.

The morning was almost passed be¬
fore either of them alluded to the
night before, then Stannard said

thoughtfully, *‘I wish we knew what
causes that effect of light. Of course
I don’t mind it, but if Evelyn should
see it she might get curious about it
and in mentioning it outside bring
forth in reply some of those idiotic
cat stories.”

“We’ll investigate,” said Fen¬
ton, and Stannard agreed with him,
though just what form the investiga¬
tion should take was a bit hazy in
both their minds.

That evening they talked for a
while over their cigars, discussing
various practical questions with re¬
gard to the arrangement of the house,
and then Stannard announced his in¬
tention of finishing the reading of a
book he had begun some time before.
He turned toward the big library
table and after a fruitless search re¬
membered having left it on the dress¬
ing table of the room in which they
bad slept.

F ENTON heard him whistling
gaily as he mounted the stairs to
the room above. The electricians had
been busy with the lights, and these
were not yet in order on the upper
floors, but a bright moonlight flooded
in through the broad windows, mak¬
ing a light unnecessary. Stannard
advanced, still whistling, and picked
up the book. He was about to with¬
draw when some instinct caused him
to glance toward the bed, and at that
instant he started so violently that
the book fell with a crash to the floor.

Something lay on the bed, some¬
thing long and still, covered with a
carefully arranged sheet. It looked
like the body of a man. For a mo¬
ment Stannard stood hesitating, then
he deliberately crossed the room to
the side of the bed and placed his
hand upon what appeared to be the
head of the thing. There was no mis¬
taking the contour of the nose and
chin beneath the sheet.

Stannard sprang through the door
and made his way downstairs. But

108

WEIRD TALES

as he neared the door of the room
where Fenton sat, he slackened his
speed: he did not wish to display any
emotion either in his voice or face.

“Fenton,” he said at last, and his
voice was creditably steady, “will you
come upstairs with me? I want you
to see something.”

A minute later both men entered
the bedroom door and stood facing
the bed. Certainly there was nothing
there. There was no trace on the
smooth surface of the counterpane
that anything had at any time rested
there. Stannard bent forward and
passed his hands over the place where
the thing had lain.

“A minute ago,” he said in be¬
wilderment, “the dead body of a man,
covered with a sheet, lay on the bed.”

“That,” said Fenton, “is obvions-
ly impossible.”

“I saw it distinctly,” persisted
Stannard; “furthermore, I felt it.”

“That is impossible,” repeated
Fenton. ‘ ‘ Even if the house were in¬
fested with ghosts or spooks or what¬
ever you choose to name them, yon
couldn’t feel them. Furthermore, if
anything so heavy as die body of a
dead man had been placed upon the
bed, the imprint would still be there.”

Stannard passed his hand across his
forehead.

“For heaven’s sake, have patience
with me,” he pleaded. “It was a
dreadful experience 1”

Later that night Stannard paused
at the bedroom door.

“You mean to say yon expect me
to sleep where that thing has lain?”
he asked miserably.

“Nothing was there, old fellow.
Think for yourself how impossible

“Then,” said Stannard unhappily,
“I am a very sick mam”

Fenton looked at him thoughtfully.

“We might manage to rig up an¬
other place to sleep,” he suggested.

but Stannard seemed to rouse himself
from the mood into which he had
fallen. “Nonsense,” he said, “I am
all right. I suppose the moonlight
made it look—but Fenton, I felt of
the tiling, that’s what beats me, I fell
of the thing and it was a human
body.” 1

They slept, nevertheless, in that
same room, and the odd part of it was,
they slept none the less well for that
affair of the evening. In the light of
the morning Stannard seemed less
sure that he had really put his hand
on that figure under the sheet. He
thought that perhaps the shock of
what he saw, or supposed that he saw,
had unsettled him for the time.

Both men decided upon a holiday
and went off for a long tramp through
the country. This took up most of
the day. They sat long over dinner,
which they had at the little inn in the
village, and entered the house that
evening in high spirits. The electri¬
cians had completed their work and
Fenton had quietly turned on every
one of the numerous lights. The full
illumination was in fact somewhat
trying, but it had its effect. It would
be difficult indeed to consider any¬
thing of a supernatural order subject¬
ing itself to that intense and penetrat¬
ing glare.

Fenton talked glibly of all the
agreeable things he could think of.
They spoke of Evelyn’s return, of
some lucrative business which had
come into their hands, of the athletic
news, and finally of the latest political
scandal. And presently, perhaps be¬
cause of the intense light and the long
watt they had taken that day, Fenton
found himself being gradually over¬
come by a persistent drowsiness.
Several times he had roused himself,
when he suddenly started up from a
pleasant sleep, at the sound of a cry
of horror from his companion.

Stannard was standing in the cen¬
ter of the room, his arms stretched
forward as if to ward off something

FOR SALE—A COUNTRY SEAT

309

which he saw approaching, and a look
of unspeakable terror was upon his

As Fenton started toward him,
Stannard fell forward his full length
upon the hearth rug. When he had
regained consciousness he grasped his
friend convulsively by the wrist.

"He was there, by that window,
looking in,” he whispered with white
lips. “He was looking in, watching

“Who was!”

‘‘He was; the man that once lived
here—the man that hanged himself!
He was there at that window, I tell
you! I saw him plainly.”

Fenton looked toward the window
to which Stannard had pointed.

“I see a bush that sways slightly
in the breeze,” he suggested. “Do
you still think you see him!”

“No,” said Stannard, “he has
gone. But oh, his face was horrible,
horrible! Fenton, we must leave this

Fenton agreed. Certainly it was
best to leave the house as quickly as
possible, but Stannard divined that
his companion’s concern was for his,
Stannard’s, mental condition and that

what had been seen. Abruptly he as¬
sumed a new attitude of mind.

“Fenton,” he said, “if there is
really something strange about this
house, you ought to see it as well as I,
and I propose to stay here until you:
do. If I keep on seeing things and
you don’t, 111 know my mind is going,
and I had better know it for sure be¬
fore—before Evelyn comes back.”

“Very well,” conceded Fenton,
“we’ll go over to the inn for a good
night’s rest and well come back to¬
morrow and see what’s up.”

“No,” said Stannard, “we’ll stay
right here, tonight.”

It was some time before Fenton
was willing to agree, but the futility
of further argument was all too ap-

T HE two men settled themselves
in comfortable chairs facing the
window. The thought of sleep was
out of the question, yet the glare of
the light made the matter of remain¬
ing awake a difficult one. They spoke
little and they listened intently.
Presently Stannard rose abruptly.

“I’ve got to shut that door back of
us,” he exclaimed. “I feel that he
might be there instead of at the win-

Fenton’s eyes anxiously followed
him and so it happened that they both
turned at the same time to look again
at the window. Stannard caught Fen¬
ton’s arm with a grip of desperation.

“Do you see him!” he cried. “Do
you see what I see!”

“Yes,” answered Fenton through
dry lips, “I do.”

“You are not humoring me, Fen¬
ton! You see—tell me what you see!”

“I see an old man, in evening
clothes, looking at us through the win¬
dow. His face is horribly discolored
and distorted, and one sleeve is badly
torn. Around his throat is a frayed
bit of rope. He—he looks like one
who has been dead for some time.”

Stannard gave a sudden sob of re¬
lief. Horrible as it was, it was better
than the madness which he had feared
had come upon him.

“Now,” he said, “we will go; the
sooner the better.”

As the two men stepped hurriedly
out into the night, something came
rushing past them in the darkness,
something which sprang with the agil¬
ity of a great cat into a tree growing
close beside the house.

Fenton caught his companion’s arm
and stood still.

“Wait,” he said; “something else
is coming.”

And at that instant another dark
figure dashed past them and made for
the tree. As they strained their eyes
in the darkness it seemed to them that
the figure disappeared through the
window into the house.

TfgSl

112

WEIRD TALES

upon the crew. They went about their
duties white-faced, subdued, as
though profoundly disturbed by a
sense of something imminent that
could not be stayed or avoided. . .

The last thing they saw before they
went below was two men removing
the stores from the smallest of the
three boats. On their way to their
cabins below decks Captain Hansen
gloomily admitted to Marian Ren-
wick’s question that this boat was un¬
seaworthy. But there was ample
room in the other boats, he assured
her, if it should eome to that!

They decided to remain awake and
dressed during the night. They dined
hastily on sandwiches and tea, and
sat in their stuffy little cabin waiting
for the typhoon to break.

T HE Kestrel’s sudden, wild swoop
under its first impact came as a
relief. The period of anxious wait¬
ing was over now. They were in
for it.

The Kestrel wallowed, and the
plunge seemed to the Renwicks more
like the plunge of a frightened animal
than anything a ship might do. Then,
under careful guidance, she settled
into a steady drive into the wind, her
auxiliary engines doing their utmost.

It was Hansen’s announced pur¬
pose to wear through until he could
bear to the southward and “get be¬
hind” the cyclone, and this policy he
did his best to carry out. The stanch
windjammer stood up bravely, and
might indeed have weathered through
had not the engines given out.
The engines stopped. Her headway
abruptly ceasing, the Kestrel was
seized by the typhoon as though in
monstrous and malignant arms and
hurled and spun about in a chaos of
mountainous waves.

In their cabin the two passengers
were hurled together into a corner.
They managed to seize and hold on to
the edge of their lower bunk. They
had been slung partly under it. Ren-

wick braced his feet against the wall
at the bunk’s end and by main force
held himself and his wife against this
firm support. Beyond a few bruises
neither had been hurt. Lurch and
twist now as the Kestrel might, they,
fastened like limpets, spun with her.
They were dizzy and sick when the
Kestrel by an almost impish streak of
luck righted herself and began to
spin along with her keel down and her
bow leading her. She had, after an
incredible knocking about, in the
course of the upheaval, gone com¬
pletely about. She righted herself
slowly and heavily and then scudded
away before the mounting gale, naked
to her sticks.

Some time after this comparative
steadiness of motion had replaced the
maddening upheavals, Renwick and
his wife relaxed their grip on the
bunkside and reassured themselves
that they were able to stand upright.
Marian was very giddy, and Renwick,
after helping her into the lower bunk
and wedging her in with bedding,
staggered to the deck in search of in¬
formation.

Hansen reassured him. How the
Kestrel had lived he was unable to un¬
derstand, still less to explain, but now
they had more than a fair chance, he
thought, to ride it out; as good a
chance as any windjammer un¬
equipped with auxiliary power. If
only he had not trusted to the en¬
gines ! No one would ever know what
had happened. Both the engineer
and his assistant were dead. They
had been remorselessly jammed and
crushed by the terrible tossing, there
in their tiny engineroom. The engi¬
neer was unrecognizable. Five of the
crew, too, were gone, washed away by
the mountains of water that had been
flung athwart the exposed decks.

There was comparatively little dan¬
ger now. There were no leaks, though
the house, all railings, and everything
above decks was gone, that is, all save
the masts, and, almost a miracle, the

SEA CHANGE

113

boats. All three boats were safe, and,
as hasty examination showed, intact,
including the small boat that had been
relieved of its provisions because of
its unseaworthiness.

The Kestrel drove on through the
night, under the slowly declining
force of the typhoon, now blowing it¬
self out. Pood and coffee were served
but no one thought of turning in.

The moon rose a little after four
bells, flooding the pursuing waters
and the deck of the Kestrel. It was
full, and the light was clear and bril¬
liant. Renwick and his young wife,
on deck again, carefully worked their
way to the small boat, where they
clung to the rigging of the davits and
looked outboard and aft where the
long waves pursued relentlessly, like
angry mountains.

“What’s the matter with the
boat?” asked Marian.

“I suppose it’s been allowed to dry
out too much. It seems sound enough
to me, but naturally Hansen wouldn’t
bave said it was no good unless he
knew what he was talking about.”

They watched it swing. The davit
rigging had been considerably loos-

“Let’s get into it!” suggested
Marian, suddenly.

Renwick investigated. The canvas
boat cover had not been replaced.
There was no chock. He climbed
gingerly into the boat, and with his
help Marian managed it also. Then
Renwick again descended to the deck
and loosened the pulley ropes and
stays so that, with the swing of the
level binnacle-lamp in his mind, the
small boat might have a wider arc in
which to swing and so keep them com¬
paratively free from the pitching and
tossing of the Kestrel.

It was a landsman’s notion, a mere
whimsy. A seaman would have scoffed
at it, but, queerly enough, it seemed
to work. He climbed back into the
swinging boat and settled down in its
bottom beside Marian.

The boat was, of course, swung in¬
board, and being small compared to
the larger boats, both of which were
chocked firmly, it swung free. Ren¬
wick felt that since the boat had been
condemned they might make free with
it, and he pulled some old cork life-
preservers out from under the
thwarts and arranged them under
Marian’s head and his own. It was a
weird sensation, lying there side by
side looking up into the clear, moon¬
light sky, relatively motionless as the
swinging boat accommodated itself to
the rolling and pitching of the Kes¬
trel.

They lay there and listened to the
roar of the wind and sea. Both were
dozing, fitfully, when the Kestrel
struck.

Without warning there came a fear¬
ful, grinding crash forward. The
Kestrel shivered and then appeared
to crumple, her deck tilting to an ab¬
rupt angle. In the boat the impact
was greatly modified, yet it would
have been enough without that shat¬
tering crash ahead to have awakened
people much more soundly asleep than
Renwick and his wife. The masts
snapped like pipestems.

The deck stayed on its perilous
slant as the vessel hung on the teeth
of the barrier reef on which she had
struck bow on, while the great follow¬
ing waves roared over her in cascades.
They lifted the small boat and tore it
loose from its frayed tackle and car¬
ried it far forward, as with a tremen¬
dous and irresistible heave a huge fol¬
lowing wave, overtopping its fellows,
lifted the Kestrel’s hull and heaved
her forward for more than her own
length and crushed her down upon
the rocks. She parted like rotten
cloth as she turned turtle and was en¬
gulfed in a mighty whirlpool of mad¬
dened water.

The small boat with two helpless
wisps of humanity lying side by side
upon her bottom, riding free, was

WEIRD TALES

borne forward on the resistless force
of the rushing water.

2

W HEN Edward Renwiek’s moth¬
er died he had the satisfaction
of realizing that she passed out of the
world forgetful of a remembered ter¬
ror that had colored her thoughts as
long as he could remember. His
mother, left alone early in his life,
had never once relaxed her vigilance
over him. Now with her death he
realized rather abruptly that no one
remained to share the secret of what

Renwick himself knew it only as a
matter of hearsay. His own memory
did not extend to what they had called
The Terrible Time, because then he
had been little more than an infant.

His earliest days, he had been told,
were like those of any other young
child. It was not until he was two
years old that The Change had begun.

He had always, since birth, slept
more soundly than other children. Al¬
ways his mother had been obliged to
awaken him from a deep sleep like
the inveterate slumbers of some
young, hibernating animal. His
growth had been regular, but slow.

They had always spent their sum¬
mers at the ranch in those days. When
he was two, just after they had ar¬
rived at the ranch, The Change began.

The child first Ioet his power of
speech. His utterance became thicker,
constantly, and less intelligible. Soon
there remained only a few vague mut-
terings. Meantime he slept more and
more soundly. It became correspond¬
ingly harder and harder to awaken
him. His face began to grow expres¬
sionless, then repulsive. His skin be¬
came roughened and dry, and a waxy
pallor overspread it. Wrinkles ap¬
peared on his forehead. The eyelids
swelled. The nostrils flattened out,
the ears thickened, and the fine baby
hair, which had become harsh, like

rough tow, fell out, leaving little piti¬
ful bald patches. Then the child's
teeth, which were small and irregular,
blackened rapidly.

Finally, before the eyes of the dis¬
tracted young parents, many miles
distant from any center of even crude
civilization, the child seemed to be
shrinking in size, and his hands and
feet to be turning in.

Nothing comparable to this shatter¬
ing affliction lay within the utmost
bounds of their understanding or ex¬
perience. For several weeks their
changeling continued to deteriorate.
Then, at the end of their resources,
in despair, the father rode the thirty
miles to the nearest telegraph office
and sent an urgent message to their
New York physician. The urgency of
the message assured the doctor of an
unnsual need. He arranged his prac¬
tise and journeyed to his friends.

The doctor spent several days,
greatly puzzled, watching the child,
now grotesquely deformed. He no
longer recognized his mother. No
longer had he the energy to sit up¬
right.

Then the doctor, armed with photo¬
graphs and other results of his in¬
vestigations, went back to New York
to consult specialists.

He did not return to the ranch, but
he explained at length the findings of
those whom he had consulted. The
child, they said, had become a cretin.
This, explained Dr. Sturgis, meant
that there had occurred one of those
mystifying cases of failure of a gland.
It was one of the ductless glands,
probably the thyroid, in the lower
portion of the throat. All the duct¬
less glands were connected in some
mysterious way. They operated in a
human being somewhat like an inter¬
locking directorate in business. One
was dependent upon another. When
anything like this silent, internal cata¬
clysm occurred, the nicely adjusted
balance was disturbed, and the victim,
became a monster.

116

WEIRD TALES

ing against turquoise sea had, some¬
how, got into their blood.

It was little wonder that, with their
imaginations so hugely intrigued by
the sea’s fascination and its everlast¬
ing mystery, they had for their wed¬
ding journey engaged passage on the
Kestrel. That was why they were in
the South Pacific.

They satisfied each other profound¬
ly, in a perfection of companionship
for which the stanch old windjam¬
mer had proved to be the perfect set¬
ting. It was almost as though they
had been born again, once their feet
knew the swing of a deck. It seemed
to them, like city-bred children drink¬
ing in the first invigorating, elusive
breath of the salt sea, that it would
always be impossible to encompass
enough of that atmosphere. And if it
was true that each felt this profound
yearning for the breath of the salt
winds stiffly blowing, it was true also
that there ran through the fine fabric
of their association something like a
thin thread of somberness, almost of
apprehension. It seemed to them too
splendid and soul-filling to be true or
otherwise than the gossamer stuff of
which dreams are made.

N OT even a periodic missionary
ever came to the tiny atoll. Most
of its forty-four Polynesian inhabi¬
tants had had a hand at one time or
another on the gunwales of the skiff
when it was dragged through the surf
of the inner reefs.

The “unseaworthy” boat, the boat
condemned as useless, had served Ren-
wick and Marian well. Unconscious
after that first mad ride away from
the devils on the crest of a mountain

of water, they had lain motion¬
less, side by side in the boat’s bot¬
tom, and so kept her trimmed as wave
after great wave had successively car¬
ried them on and on through the tom
waters of the reefs to the shallows
within reach of the islanders.

Renwick’s first half-conscious act
when, from that fearful dream of
grinding and hoarse cries of despair,
and being smothered and hurled help¬
lessly about, he awoke upon a pile of
coco mats, was to reach into his pocket
for the little metal box in which he
carried his capsules. Then he thought
of Marian, realizing dimly that he
was, somehow, safe, and with a shud¬
der, he reassured himself of her safe¬
ty. She was sleeping peacefully, the
sleep of utter exhaustion, on another
pile of mats, near by. They were in
a wattled hut. An intolerably bright
sun was streaming through a low
doorway and in at the lacelike inter¬
stices of the palm fronds that formed

He rose painfully to his feet, sway¬
ing with weakness, and took the little
metal box out of his pocket and looked
into it. There were eight of the cap¬
sules in the box.

Marian was safe. God be thanked!
God was good, good, unbelievably
good! Aching in every joint, Ren-
wick stooped and passed out through
the low doorway into the full, blind¬
ing glitter of the pouring sunlight.

A chirping mutter of many soft
voices greeted him. The kindly island¬
ers approached from every quarter.
He saw them, bewilderedly, his hand
shading his eyes from the glare.

A smiling woman placed a hat of
plaited split grass upon his head. A
fine, upstanding, elderly man ad¬
dressed him in a strange parody of
English, making him welcome. This
native had been, it appeared, in the
Paumotus. It was he who told what
had happened: how they had come
ashore; how the islanders had gone
out through the surf to salvage an

118

WEIRD TALES

recollection. The next day, at noon,
engrained habit prevailing over his.
resolution, he took a tablet. The day
following, after reasoning the prob¬
lem out afresh, he swallowed his last
tablet and flung the metal box far out
among the creaming breakers of the
nearest reel

He stood, looking after it out to
sea. Par beyond the breakers, beyond
the great expanse of blue ocean which
was their background, there swam
into the scope of his vision the clear-
cut outline of a spar. He lost it. He
shaded his eyes with both hands
against the intolerable glare: Again
he picked it out standing up against
the horizon. He wondered why he
had not noticed it before. This was
because: he reasoned, occupied with
his introspections, he had glanced
only indifferently out to sea. Besides,
he had probably, he told himself, not
looked in that precise direction. One
looked out to sea from any spot on
the tiny, almost circular, coral island.

Down under that spar, if chance
had been only reasonably kind, lay
the hull which supported it, and in
the hull reposed in. small, watertight
cartons the thyroids which meant life,
sanity, Marian!

Then, as he looked, his heart bound¬
ing with hope, all his young instincts,
stimulated to vigorous, action, he saw,
very faintly and indistinctly at that
great distance, the unmistakable sign
of the sea-wolves of the South Pacific
—the rakish dorsal fins of great
sharks. He looked long at them as
they moved about in the vicinity of
the spar, and shuddering, he turned
inland and walked back to the hut.

Here on the island there was no
means of procuring even crude thy¬
roid. There were no animals. The
atoll was utterly self-contained. Its
simple inhabitants subsisted on fruit
and fish. There was no settlement
within hundreds of miles.

He interviewed the English-speak¬
ing islander. It had been the chance

of a ship’s crew putting in for water
that had taken this man on his
travels. Did such crews ever put in
nowadays? Very seldom. Onee in a
year, perhaps, or two years—who
could tell ? The lull was a long chance.
The sharks would go away when they
had cleared up what was edible from
the wreckage out there. At any rate
there was the possibility of a solution
out there; a solution first vaguely
imagined, horrifically rejected, then
avidly taken up again as Renwick
tossed through the interminable tropic
night on his coco matting, the night
of the day on which he had taken
his last capsule.

There was no help to be procured.
He bad sounded his friend the
islander on the subject of summoning
the men of the settlement with their
primitive outriggers to go out there
and loot the wreck. But the islander
had said, indifferently, that there was
no hurry about that. Some of it might
come in anyway, as Renwick and
Marian had come in, almost miracu¬
lously, through the jagged reefs: The
sharks were thick out there now, and
they would remain for some time:
Time enough to go out there when
they had dispersed and made it pos¬
sible to dive! They might remain a
week or a month. Who could explain
the avidity or the patience of a shark?
They would follow ships day after
day in these seas, apparently subsist¬
ing on nothing, waiting! There was
something in that wreck they were
waiting for now, and they would re¬
main until they got it. Besides, it was
far, almost too far for outriggers!

Renwick tried to argue. It was net
so very far. One could see the spar.
The islander only smiled. There ap¬
peared to be something unaccounta¬
bly amusing to him in Renwick’s idea
of distance. But he did not explain.
Perhaps what was clear enough to
him was beyond his limited powers of
expression, and realizing this, he only
smiled.

120

WEIRD TALES

himself, treading water, to make sure
of his direction. He located the spar,
straight in line with his course. To
his surprize it seemed no nearer than
when he had stood on the beach. This
lie attributed to the queer tricks of
refraction, and resumed his swim.

After another long, stead}* period
of progress in the same direction he
repeated his lookout. Again he reas¬
sured himself as to his course. Once
more he swam on, puzzled that the
spar still seemed so distant. It was
almost uncanny.

Suddenly, as this calamity usually
comes, even to an expert swimmer, he
began to tire. He rested, floating,
for several minutes, and then, tread¬
ing water, again oriented himself by
the spar. He could perceive no dif¬
ference in its appearance of nearness.
For all the progress he had made he
might as well have been standing on
the beach t Then it came to him sud¬
denly that his disintegration must
have been making strides far more
rapidly than he had imagined possi¬
ble. He must have got only a little
way from the island! How good it
was—what a mercy!—that it had
this form, and not some other that
would have been apparent to Marian.

Wearily he trod water again,
and, locating the spar, turned himself
directly around in the certainty of
finding the island just at hand, his
one hope being that he had got far
enough away so that he might drown
quietly here out of Marian’s view. He
hoped she might not have remained
on the beach. If so she would be
puzzled at his slight progress, and
would be watching him intently. . .
He could never reach the spar. He
could not, of course, go back. The
solution rested upon his not return¬
ing, unless (how absurd it seemed!) he
should, by that saving chance which
by its casuistry saved his act from
deliberate self-destruction, manage in
some way to drive off the sharks, and,

by a lucky dive, succeed in lighting
upon one of his cartons. . .

He could not see the island! He
shaded his eyes with his hands, and
looked carefully. Could that be itt
It must be. There was no other island
within hundreds of miles. But—could
he possibly have come so far? The
island appeared to him almost low
on the horizon. He must have been
swimming steadily for hours. He
could see the island in its entirety;
perspective had made it small and
compact. And he had dreaded
Marian’s being on the beach to see!

Infinitely troubled, all his reason¬
ing thrown askew, he rolled over up¬
on his back and floated, trying to
think consecutively. There was only
one explanation for the apparently
stationary spar. That must be the
very common sea-mirage. That was
what the islander had meant: what
he could not explain! He, too, had
seen the spar, had had it pointed out
to him; and he had said it was almost
too far for a company of men in the
outriggers! How could he, in his de¬
cadent condition, have come such a
distance as this toward it ?

Then he recalled that he had been
basing this present idea of decadence,
of having covered only a short dis¬
tance, on the fact that the spar had
not appeared to grow in size. But
that, as he had just rightly reasoned,
was mirage! Reason allowed only
one answer to the riddle. He had
actually covered the great distance
the time spent in the water would
have permitted him to swim while in
perfect condition.

He thought of his intended battle
with the sharks. He shuddered, and
imagined a shark just behind him,
then laughed aloud at this fancy.
Suddenly he sobered. He had laughed
—laughed! A fitting conclusion to a
perfectly normal sequence of ideas.
He reasoned with himself afresh.
What was the matter with him? This
manner of thought, this great swim—

Sf'A^.-s-jsrfi

TALES

I RAMIRO d’QRCO, whom men
call the Wolf of the Campagna
on account of the evil deeds of
my master Cesare Borgia. Duke of
Romagna, am about to write an ac¬
count of ray last adventure so that all
may know why I died. I live now;
but, with the setting sun, men will
come for me, and, in some manner, I
shall pay all my debts to the God I
have wronged.

I dread it not, for is not Maria
deadt Perhaps she will obtain par¬
don for me; then together will we
wander through the marble palaces,
hand in hand. But there may be no
mercy for so great a sinner as I. I
have sinned, deeply; but ever at an¬
other man's dictates. 1 only know I
want death and Maria. For the rest
I can but hope, I can but pray.

But my time runs short. I will be¬
gin ; for the sun is high in the heavens
and I have much to write before he

Rome lay sweltering in the glare
of an August day. Cesare Borgia was
staying with his sister Luerezia at
Naples; but he had ordered me to
await his return in Rome. Huge as
was the Borgia palace, few of its in¬
mates stirred during the hot day. The
servants were busy in their own quar¬
ters, and my bravos, in the courtyard,

slept or plaved interminable games of
dice.

At last evening fell and I was able,
though the risk was still great, to en¬
joy the outside freshness.

Wrapping my cloak tightly round
chin and shoulders and pulling my
hat over my eyes, I sallied forth into
the open air. The shimmering Tiber
lay bathed in gold and blood as the
gorgeous sunset deepened, but little
I recked a seene so beautiful. Even
in the city, ruled as it was by the Bor-
gias. my life was not worth a mo¬
ment’s purchase should my identity
be discovered, so I keenly scrutinized
each passer-by and kept ready hands
on dagger and sword. Thus I passed
through the streets until I drew near
Tiber’s banks, and sat down on the
grass that clothed its yellow margin.

Suddenly to roy vacant ears there
came a scream, another, and yet an¬
other, before I realized what was
afoot. Leaping up, I hurried for¬
ward until I could see a young girl,
of exquisite beauty, struggling in the
grasp of three of Tiber’s rogues.

I stole onward, silently, ghostlike.
When ten paces away, I bounded for¬
ward. and my dagger reached the
heart of the nearest rascal. He died
without a groan. The others loosed
the girl and turned quickly, their

? m

126

WEIRD TALES

Then Cesare laughed loud and
gripped while Bacco squirmed. The
silence of the room was suddenly
broken by a snap. Bacco reeled back¬
wards with his hand broken.

“My dear Bacco,” cried Borgia,
“you are a weakling. 60 now, man,”
he snarled, “and if you laugh again
1 ’ll spit you as I would a bird. ’ ’

“A useful lesson,” said Cesare to
me as Bacco went ont. “But now to
business. Maria Stefano is a beauti¬
ful girl, and I, Cesare Borgia, have
fallen in love with her.”

I was dumfounded. My heart be¬
came as lead.

“But what about me, Excellency?”

‘ ‘ Servants must give place to their
masters, d’Orco,” replied Cesare.

Then I saw his face, where all the
pent-up passion of ages seemed stored.

“What?” he shouted.

Coward as I was, I quailed.

“Nothing, Excellency,” I quavered.

“My God, man, if you stand in my

He stopped.

"‘Yon see this ring?” he added in a
quieter tone, as he slipped from his
finger a plain gold band set with a

just enough poison to kill a man in
four days; and all that time he will
be in torture. Do you wish to wear
it?”—with a cruel smile.

“No, no. Excellency,” I cried,

“Well, d’Grco,” he thundered, “if
you thwart me in the merest iota you
shall wear it. Now perhaps you
understand,” he added. “Here are
your instructions. Tonight, yourself
and five of my men will go to Ceeena.
All must wear masks; the horses’
hoofs must be padded; there must be
no noise. You will go to the Stefano
bouse and bring back Maria. If any
one should dare to oppose you, kill
him. You are ready to do it?” as be
saw my countenance distorted with
anguish.

I thought for a moment and quick¬
ly realized that by my going Maria
might have a chance for her life,
whereas if I should refuse we should
both die, I murdered, she of shame.

“I agree, Excellency,” I replied.
“Good! Be ready at dusk,” he
answered. But he eyed me craftily
as I left the room.

W HEN dusk fell that evening the
five bravos and I were ready
mounted at the castle gate. I did
not stay to examine them. What was
the use, since all had had their in¬
structions, I knew.

“Ready?” I whispered.

“Si, signor.’’

"Forward, then!”

Quietly, black demons on black
steeds, well-nigh invisible, almost in¬
audible, we stole through the byways
of the silent city, making for the up¬
hill route that led to Cesena.

Once on the high road we stretched
out our horses, and the plan I bad al¬
ready evolved began to mature. I
knew Cesare too well to doubt his in¬
tentions. Even now he had probably
set one of the men to watch me lest I
should play him false. Yes, my plan
was the only one feasible. I must die,
but Maria would be saved.

My mind made up, I rode forward
more light-heartedly until we reached
the outskirts of Cesena. Our pace
slackened, and we passed along the
road like wraiths until we reached the
Stefano eottage. How my heart beat
when I saw the dear little place in
which I had spent so many hours of
happiness? Now that happiness was
but a broken shell. Yet, if by dying
I could save her from the certain
shame that awaited her in Borgia’s
palace, my ignoble life would have a
glorious end. It was well worth
striving for.

I gave orders to dismount and close
in on the cottage. Carefully I ad¬
justed my mask, which the wind had
loosened somewhat, and, striding for-

THE WOLF OF THE CAMPAGNA

12T

ward, knocked at the door. It was
opened by Maria herself. I brushed
past her and 1 was followed by my five
bravos, the last of whom poshed my
beloved info the room before following
himself.

Old Stefano Jumped op and drew
down Ms old sword. His wife
screamed for help. Maria herself,
who was made of sterner stuff, stood
in a comer, looking as white as the
driven snow. In a moment all was
excitement. I went quietly to Maria
and whispered her name; She started.

“Toot”' she exclaimed.

“Yes, dearest,” I answered. “The
Borgia has compelled me to come.
Tour beauty has inflamed his bestial
passions, and he has ordered me to
carry you. to him. ”

“You, you whom I loved and who
I thought loved me, to do such a
thing!” cried Maria.

“Hush, dear,” I whispered.
“Can’t you see yet? If I had refused
to come, Borgia; would have slain me
and sent someone else. I hold oat
hopes of an escape for yon, however,
but now” (I glanced round warily
and saw that old Stefano and his wife
were dead, while one of my bravos
was lying prostrate on the earthen
floor) “silence 1”

The place was a veritable shambles.
Hardened though I was to such sights,
1 felt sick, and Maria fainted r sw I
picked her up and made for the door,
motioning my men to follow. We
mounted, and I, in pursuance of mv
plan, placed her on the spare horse
and rode alongside to hold her up.

I ordered the men to ride on be¬
fore, and, somewhat to my surprize,
they obeyed me. The cool air of eve¬
ning soon revived the fainting girl,
hut when she became conscious, her
state was pitiable. She cried for her
father and mother. She saw continu¬
ally before her eyes the little room
with its blood-bespattered walls and
its dead occupants.

“Hush, dearest,” I whispered.
“You must control yourself now, for
if you fail to escape within the next
half hour, the Borgia will hold you.”

That aroused her.

“Never!” she exclaimed, and I saw
the blood course to her cheeks. “That
cursed libertine shall never hold me

“’Neither shall he hold you dead,”
I responded.

“Tell me- what to do.”

“Draw out my dagger quietly and
stab- me through the arm. You must
do it,” I said as I saw her wince, “or
Cesare will kill me. Then tom and
ride for your life.”

There was no answer.

“Do you understand*’’

“Yes”

“Faster, nn»!” I shouted; and the
front quartet began to draw away.
“Now!” I whispered.

She drew the dagger quietly, and
a red-hot shaft passed through my
right forearm. Then she turned and
was gone. I waited for some mo¬
ments, before shouting to my com¬
rades: “TK! that cursed vixen has
stabbed me-and ridden off!”

They came back helter-skelter, and
their faces were pitiable to see. Fear,
naked and unashamed, reigned su¬
preme. We aU followed her trail, but
saw no sign of her. Once in the woods
to our right I thought I heard- a
scream, but it was not repeated, and
my men on being questioned said they
had heard nothing.

Two hours later we drew reign in
Borgia’s courtyard. The men were
sullen and eyed me askance, but I was
happy, for had I not saved my sweet¬
heart, even though I myself should
soon meet the dread reaper?

To my great surprize old Tomaso
said that Cesare would see no one that
night and ordered me to place the girl
where I liked. That alone should
have made me suspicious, but never
till the very end did I suspect the
depths of Borgia’s ingenuity.

im §§§§§

“S'irSS *EH

ISlPfl

'?= F.'iSr%Jfi I SK , tK ie i

1 COULD not sleep that night. My
body was tired, but my soul was
wide-awake. My soul was rebel¬
lious. It seemed striving to break
loose from its imprisoning body, bent
upon making some strange tour of
discovery, an exploration of the un¬
known.

My physical being shrank from con¬
tact with the unnatural; my spiritual
being yearned toward it.

For some minutes a bitter fight was
waged within me, earthly and spirit¬
ual lives alike struggling for mastery.
My brain burned like molten lava;
my heart leapt within me with an
awful excitement. The strain imposed
upon my senses was terrific, the pain
I was enduring unutterable.

Suddenly my body weakened; its
powers of resistance diminished. And,
seemingly realizing its opportunity,
the soul sprang forward, hurled it¬
self with horrible force against the
enclosing barrier of flesh, and burst
forth. My brain and heart, clinging
to the spirit, passed out along with
it; soul, life and mind alike deserted
the earthly dwelling.

More swiftly than thought itself, I
shot into midair and dashed on into
unknown space, cleaving the ether.
Far out across the universe I sped,
130

leaving behind me stars and moon,
sun, earth and planets.

At last I had arrived at the very
edge of the world, and looking down,
saw beneath me a great abyss.

Far, far below me, hung a vast cur¬
tain of smoke-clouds, concealing from
my view the underworld.

Spurred on by insatiable curiosity,
I flung myself downward through
the clouds, and penetrating the thick
mass, found myself—in HELL!

Yes, I was in the pit itself. All
around me were tall steep walls,
stretching upward to meet the ceiling
of clouds. The whole area reeked
with the smelL of brimstone, and un¬
derneath me, scorching me with their
fetid breath, were huge fires.

Gathered around the fires, and feed¬
ing them from time to time, was an
army of fiery fiends. These were
hideously formed, their fingers armed
with long, poniard-pointed, red claws;
their bodies squat and misshapen;
their short legs deformed; their flat
feet cloven.

These dreadful fiends were many¬
handed, and in eaeh hand they held
souls of the damned. Stretching out
their snaky arms, they dangled the
souls above the flames, toasting them
to a brown crisp while the victims
shrieked and screamed in torment. At

E?S“S: 3"^

132

WEIRD

TALES

Jog, and it jumped in fright right
down in front of the mighty brute.

Perhaps you have seen a toad shoot
forward its tongue and snap up a fly.
In just such manner did Cerberus
seoop up the soul that had fallen. Like
lightning the flaming red tongue
darted forward, caught the soul upon
its tip, and snapped it between those
two rows of grinding molars. Crunch,
crunch, crunch went the great teeth.

Until then, I had (though with ex¬
treme difficulty) managed to repress
my emotions, but the sight of that
wretched, damned soul being ground
piecemeal in that terrible mill caused
me to utter a sudden horrified scream.

Hearing the scream, the whole as¬
sembly of fiends looked up. As they
beheld me, an expression of malignant
joy overspread their countenances,
and, screeching with mad desire, they
rose into the air and clutched at me.

Fear lent me additional speed, and
eluding their deadly grasp, I threw
myself out of the pit, through the
clouds, into the space beyond.

Believing myself safe, now I had
escaped the inferno, I slackened speed
a little, thinking no demon would dare
leave the confines of the pit.

Then a red-hot finger touched me
from behind, searing and blistering
me, and glancing back over my
shoulder I saw that a whole company
of fiends were pursuing me, and that
it had been the foremost one whose
fiery claws had just grazed me.

Burning with the pain of hell I
dashed madly onward, followed close¬
ly by those fiery imps of the under¬
world. They pressed me close, chas¬
ing me here and there through the
ether, and I feared each moment
would be my last.

Then a desperate hope assailed me.
If I could re-unite soul and body, per¬
haps I would be safe. These devils
had power over the soul, but perhaps
this power did not extend to a living,
flesh-and-blood body.

Making a fresh spurt, I commenced
my journey back toward my body.
The fiends evidently guessed my in¬
tentions, for with louder, more threat¬
ening cries, they endeavored to over¬
take me.

I was now becoming exceedingly
wearied by my exertions (for even an
astral body can become fatigued, es¬
pecially one cumbered with the weight
of a heart and brain as mine was)
and was almost in despair.

I had just come to the conclusion
that I was doomed, when all at once I
caught sight of my body, lying cold
and stiff on my bed. Around it were
gathered friends and relatives.

But the fiends were rapidly cutting
down the distance between myself and
them. Again X felt a blazing finger
touch me, and again I leapt forward
in pained agony.

Realizing that it was now or never,
I put forth every iota of power I pos¬
sessed, and dashing through the walls,
I flung myself against my lifeless
form. I felt the eold flesh yield before
the impact and let in the soul. And
with a last, wild yell, the baffled fiends
turned tail and fled.

A CATALEPTIC fit-that was
what the doctors called it. I
didn’t contradict them, for I knew
that to have done so would have been
useless. Indeed, a very close friend,
to whom I related my story, looked
at me pityingly and warned me not to
tell it to anyone else, or I would sure¬
ly be placed in a madhouse.

But for weeks I was cursed with
awful nightmares of hideous dreams
incessantly. Now they come less fre¬
quently, but still at rare intervals I
am afflicted. Every night I go to
sleep with the fear of hell fastened in
my mind, and expect that ere morn¬
ing I shall see the Master of Hell and
his frightful dog. And I shall hear
that unearthly, devilish laughter, and
the grinding noise of Cerberus’ mo¬
lars crunching, crunching, crunching!

Synopsis of Preceding Chapters

Ph“

>FESSOR KURT MAQUARRI, thi
mchback son of the great scientist
Maquarri, has discovered a new element
led zodium, which gives him power ovei
human will. His stepdaughter, Joai
fern, wears a ring which, unknown t<

Philip 6

made. Dr. Olivier, a famous psychanalyst,
is Maquarri's nephew, and has inherited
from his grandfather, the elder Maquarri,
the papers containing that great man's
scientific secrets. Maquarri plans to have

hen withdra

murder Lord Huhert C

I N THE Leeward Islands they
build their houses with the dread
hurricane in mind. The old
manor house of the Charings, which
the first lord had built when he went
out to be governor of the island of
Montserrat more than two hundred
years before, was no exception. On
the edge of the cliffs overlooking the

sea it stood, some nine miles out of
the town of Plymouth. The side fac¬
ing toward the land reared three
stories of gray stone, whose windows
looked out on a formal garden, but
the steep hurricane roof of red slate
sloped sheerly down on the side of
the house toward the sea. Its diagonal
line cnt almost in half the dignified
square bulk of the house, stretching
from the top of the third story almost
down to the ground, with only a low
entrance at the rear to lead to the
hurricane cellar underneath the
building. The fiercest and most
dreaded of hurricanes could not have
lifted that steep roof from the build¬
ing it sheltered; and in the long room
at the rear of the old house, stretch¬
ing across its width, its windows cut
in the slope of the hurricane roof, the
first Lord Charing had established
himself. The view of the sea and the
harbor was superb, and the succeed¬
ing masters had never cared to use
any other room in the spacious old

Lord Hubert Charing, who had in¬
herited the estate six years before,
had spent many years wandering in
strange comers of the earth, and
when he established himself at the
old sugar estate on the island, he was
already famous as an entomologist.

134

WEIRD TALES

with the most unusual collection of
tropical butterflies and beetles in the
world. He had found the thirty-foot
room strangely to his liking, and there
he had ranged his collection of insects.
The coffin-shaped cases lined the walls
of the room, but there were other
cases piled high in the hurricane cel¬
lar that the room could not accommo¬
date.

Lord Hubert, a man in the middle
fifties, sat now at his desk in this
room with the young English archi¬
tect whom he had summoned to the
islands to consult. He was about to
build an entomological museum on the
island of Montserrat, a museum that
would cost almost a million dollars,
but that would ensure his lasting
fame, and he and the young architect
were at work on the plans.

A knock came at the door, and Lord
Hubert, loath to be disturbed in the
discussion of the one subject he cared
about, frowned angrily as he rose to
open it. Pedro, his overlooker on the
estate, stood in the doorway, his five-
year-old son in his arms, and in back
of him crowded the plantation doctor
in his white linens.

“Pedro’s youngster has been bitten
by a tarantula. Lord Hubert.”

Dr. Kilbourne pushed the over¬
looker forward into the room. He
laid the boy on a couch and turned.

“As you know, the nervous system
of a child his age has little power to
resist the effects of the bite unless
the proper antidotes are given im¬
mediately, but it will take two days
to get over to St. John’s for the fresh
drugs. I have come to you because
you told me that in your collection
you possess two of the wasps known
as Pepsis Formosa.”

Dr. Kilbourne turned to Pedro, who
bent over his boy.

‘ ‘ This Pepsis Formosa is commonly
called the tarantula killer in Mexico,
Pedro,” he explained kindly. “If
freshly applied to a sting, it stops the
painful twitching immediately.”

The doctor turned eagerly back to
Lord Hubert.

“I am sure, your lordship,” he be¬
gan, “that you will let us have one of
your Pepsis Formosa wasps to stop
the lad’s pain and twitching—”

“Certainly not!” answered the en¬
tomologist, staring coldly. “Do you
not know that I am about to build a
million dollar museum for my collec¬
tion, and these specimens you want
are exceptionally rare 1 In a long life¬
time of collecting, I have only suc¬
ceeded in obtaining three!”

“But the child is in pain! He will
suffer tortures while he is waiting for
us to send over to St. John’s for a
fresh supply of the necessary drugs!”

Lord Hubert shrugged.

“If it were a matter of- life and
death, I might — I might, I say —
oblige you. But since it is only
twenty-four hours of pain, well, the
brat will have to stand it.”

The doctor did not hide his anger,
but Lord Hubert smiled sardonically.

“It took two months of hardship
and danger in the Mexican desert for
me to find the Pepsis Formosa for my
collection.”

Mindful of his position on the es¬
tate, Pedro said nothing, but he
turned a look of hatred on his master.
Lord Hubert merely smiled. He en¬
joyed thwarting people, and it was
absurd, unheard of, that they should
demand the rarest specimens he pos-

“One would have thought from
that doctor’s air that I was merely a
common, dispensing chemist!" he
said to the young architect, who
gathered his papers together for his
departure.

T EFT alone, Lord Hubert eau-
-1 — 1 tiously bolted the door and made
his way to a panel in the rear wall.
His fingers found the cunningly con¬
cealed spot in the beading that ran
around the panel, and as he pressed
it, the door slipped noiselessly back,

WINGS OP POWER

135

disclosing a spiral staircase that ran
to the top of the house. Slipping the
panel back into place, Lord Hubert
padded up the dark, dusty stairs. He
stooped as he climbed the low and
narrow staircase, but the tiny cup¬
board of a room into which he
emerged at the top of the steps was
just high enough so that his head
grazed the ceiling.

This room was dusty and bare, its
walls were of brick, and one round
porthole high up on the wall gave a
view of the harbor and the sea. An
old telescope, dating from the time
two hundred years before when the
first Lord Charing had had this room
built, stood in the center of the room.
As Lord Hubert bent whimsically to
look through the telescope and scan
the stretch of sea, his imagination
pictured his old ancestor in the same
position. Only the lens of the tele-

Through this glass, the first Lord
Charing to come to the island of
Montserrat had been accustomed to
look for the return of Edward Teach,
the pirate popularly known as Black-
beard, and when the pirate’s ship
hung its signals. Lord Charing had
met him at the mouth of a cave con¬
necting with an underground passage
to the house.

As governor of the island of Mont¬
serrat, Lord Cecil had waged a cease¬
less warfare against the pirates of the
West Indies, but the story ran that
there had been private dealings with
Captain Edward Teach, and that the
latter had entrusted to the governor
a large share of his precious booty.
The people in the islands had been
full of the story at one time; they
claimed that a chest containing fabu¬
lous wealth in gold and jewels was
secreted somewhere in the old manor
house, and that it explained the un¬
broken luck of the Charings.

When the pestilence swept the is¬
land. when hurricanes came and

sugar crops were lost and whole for¬
tunes swept away, the luck of the
Charings remained unbroken, until it
had become an island byword. Some
said that old Lord Cecil, Lord Hu¬
bert’s grandfather, had a magic chest
of gold, a bottomless chest, some¬
where, from which he drew unlimited
sums; others that it was nothing but
the fabulous treasure of Blackbeard,
which he meant that the family
should hold intact.

But when Lord Hubert, the present
owner, in his superb egotism, had the
island newspaper publish an account
of his projected million dollar ento¬
mological museum, when he imported
an architect from England to begin
work on the plans, people winked at.
each other and said, “ Blackbeard’s
booty will build that museum.”

Lord Hubert merely smiled when
reports of the rumors came to him.
They little suspected, those fools, how
true their guesses were, else they had
before this made some attempt to
steal the treasure. Leaving the tele¬
scope, he removed several loose bricks
in the wall, and disclosed a steel safe
behind them. Out of this safe he took
a folded piece of parchment contain¬
ing a strange cipher, and rapidly
went over the familiar hieroglyphics
of that cipher in his mind. Jotting
down a note, he safely stowed the
parchment away in the safe and re¬
placed the bricks.

With the same noiseless tread of
habit, he made his way down the dim
staircase. One turning and he came
to the door of his study on the second
floor; another turning and the stair¬
case was almost pitch dark, for it led
down in back of the living rooms of
the manor house, and the windowless
steep slope of the hurricane roof shut
it off on the other side; another turn¬
ing, and Lord Hubert’s groping fin¬
gers felt the rough stone of the wall
that shut in the hurricane cellar un¬
derneath the foundations of the
house. The beam of his searchlight

psiii

“You see,” he cried, t

WINGS OP POWER

ing of that underground passage to
the cliffs and the sea.”

Felix blanched.

‘ * Maestro misunderstands, ’ ’ he
muttered. “It was but a natural
train of conclusions. I am enthralled
at the glimpse of unlimited power
which your discovery opens, that is
all. Suggestion, hypnotism, call it
what you will, for your own ends—
a poison not to be detected for those
who stand in your way—and beyond
that-—the wealth of the Indies—the
power of a C«esar!”

“The wings of power!” cried Ma-
quarri, and crossing to a cage on the
floor at the other end of the labora¬
tory, he brought back a squirming
white rat. "See, I must have one
last trial before I strike.”

He held on to the rat, and slip¬
ping the sodium ring over his little
finger, where it refused to pass the
first knuckle, he pressed against the
line chased down the center of the
beetle’s body. A tiny needle shot out
from the insect’s head, and plunging
this into the neck of the rat, Maquarri
took the ring from his finger and ex¬
amined it.

“Yes, it works,” he cried. “The
zodium poison has flowed out through
the tiny needle.”

The white rat on the table squirmed
for the fraction of a second, then lay

Felix looked fearfully at his
master.

“She goes to him tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow at 5—the usual time.
Our ship sails for the West Indies at
dawn on the day after, but she knows
nothing of that. It is to be a surprize
for her—for her health. For once
the woman Susan agrees with my
plans. You will drive directly here
from Dr. Olivier’s house, and we all
go to the pier that night.”

As Felix let himself out of the
laboratory, he shivered. The man was
deadly, fiendish. What guarantee
had he that the poison ring would not

be used against himself? The profes¬
sor would be safe from detection, cer¬
tainly. What surety that part of the
treasure and the possession of Joan
would fall to his lot ? Well, he would
be on his guard against him.

6

rvE. OLIVIER looked up from his
-Lr thick book as Christopher C.
Quinn entered.

“I’ve been reading good old Wil¬
liam James again, Chris, and I’m half
determined to try out some of his the¬
ories of hypnotism on that girl.”

“Oh, Miss X-Y, eh? How is she
getting along? If only you were ab¬
solutely sure of the effects of your
Zeta-rsy, we could solve the mystery
of her identity and finish the equation
-Miss X-Y-Z.”

Olivier’s strained look warned his
friend, and Quinn changed his tone.

“Shall you try the Zcta-ray on
her?”

“Not yet. The risk is too great.
I shall continue to use my ordinary
psychanalytical methods — perhaps
try what some harmless hypnotism
will do, and wait for time to finish

He frowned.

“You know, Chris, it’s not possible
that she should be already hypno¬
tized. They never, in all the history
of hypnotism, display her tendencies,
and yet—this passing into a second¬
ary level of consciousness seems to
point to that conclusion. I tell you.
I am baffled.”

“If only you could find out more
about her!”

“Oh, I daren’t force it. Her trust
must come gradually-.”

Quinn glanced at the younger man.

“I say, Phil, you aren’t falling in
love with her, are you? She’s very
beautiful, and beauty in distress, you
know—eh, my boy?”

“What nonsense! She’s a patient,
and we psychanalysts have to school
ourselves to have no emotions—except

noting. th ° UghtS hiS

sn?^s Then

lass

„:,r^s*irwt*”'" r -

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M&gm

WEIRD TALES

ing the precious moments when she
was herself! Selfish fool and idiot!
I should have made her tell me about
herself—her life—so I could help her
fight the environment—whatever it is
—that preys on her mind! ’ ’

He was on the steps, but the street
was deserted. At the comer, a low,
gray car turned, and the doctor
groaned at his carelessness.

Christopher C. Quinn met Dr. Oli¬
vier just as he was turning to go into
the house.

“What is it, Phil? You look as if
you wanted to murder someone.”

“It would be myself, then. I’ve
just done a fool thing. The girl—
you know, the one with the dissociated
personality—has been with me. She
had a sudden turn for the better—
came to herself for the first time, as
it were. And then, all of a sudden,
the old mood came back. I let her go,
like an idiot! Should have followed
her this time, and forced her secre-

y, ‘Hm! She comes in that long
gray car that stands outside your
door, doesn’t she?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“I’ve noticed the car, and the fel¬
low that drives it. A queer, foreign
sort of chap. Meant to take the car’s
number—just to satisfy that insati¬
able Sherlock Holmes side of my char¬
acter—but I didn’t. Next time she
comes, I’ll have a casual look at the
license, and then we can trace the
car’s owner, if need be.”

P ROFESSOR KURT MAQUARRI
was still bent over his wishing
machine as Felix let himself into the
laboratory late that afternoon.

‘ ‘ Where is she ? Where is my step¬
daughter?”

Felix stared.

“Has something gone wrong? She
seemd the same when she left the
doctor’s office.”

“Wrong? God! That devil Mari-
quita came in here in a rage and

smashed the wishing machine while
Joan was with the doctor, that’s all!
Get at the machine, Felix, and stay
there until I return. I must find out
from the girl how much she has told
him. Twenty precious minutes he
had her when she was not under my
control, and God help us if she has
told him anything to put him on our

Ten minutes later Maquarri re¬
turned to the laboratory and Felix.
The hunchback rubbed his hands with
pleasure, his eyes gleaming.

“Capital! Capital!” he gloated.
"The fool doctor spent the precious
twenty minutes making love to the
girl. She told it against her will—as
if she were fighting the wishing ma¬
chine and didn’t want to tell it—but
it was too strong for her.”

“Then we are still safe, eh?”

“Still safe, but we must lose no
more time than necessary. You will
have to race down to the shipping
offices, Felix, and change our tickets
on the Amazonia to the next ship sail¬
ing for the West Indies. Where is
that shipping list?”

With feverish fingers Maquarri
turned the pages of the newspaper
and scanned the list.

“Good! The S. S. Guadeloupe sails
on Tuesday next. Exchange our tick¬
ets for that boat, and report back to
me. She shall go to Dr. Olivier, then,
on Monday afternoon, late, and that
night we board the ship for Mont-

“npHE young lady comes at 5 to-
1 day, eh, Phil?”

“If she comes at all, it will prob¬
ably be at the usual hour. It is
strange that she should have stayed
away four days after—after that last

Christopher C. Quinn eyed his
young friend keenly. He started to
say something, but thought better of
the impulse.

WINGS OF POWER

141

“The young lady to see you, sir."

Miss Thompson stood in the door¬
way to Dr. Olivier’s office, and once
more Quinn eyed his friend keenly,
for the young doctor had jumped to
his feet and his face was alight.

“Hm! Think I’ll just ran along
and take a look at that chauffeur and
his license number,” said the lawyer,
but Olivier was already out of the

As Dr. Olivier’s professional eye
searched Joan’s face, the light left
his own.

She has come, he thought, as she
came before so many times, but she
is not herself—she is not the girl I
held in. my arms. I wonder—I must
go slowly, lest I frighten her now—
but I wonder whether she remembers
that she told me she loved me.

Gently he took Joan’s hands and
held them, closely watching her the
while. But the girl was the same
beautiful automaton of former visits,
of all former visits save the last. She
sat looking at the ring on her finger,
that strange ring that against his ra¬
tional self always gave Dr. Olivier a
creepy feeling. To his gentle ques¬
tions she gave only the most perfunc¬
tory of replies, and then, with one of
those swift transitions of mood that
he had learned to expect, she was on
her feet.

“Ah, I am restless—restless!” she
cried. “Why will you not show me
your laboratory where you work?
Where you expect to find the means
by which you can cure me?”

Olivier was at her side.

“Joan, Joan, try to remember what
happened in that laboratory last
Thursday when you were here!”

Joan looked at him, her expression
half sullen, half dazed.

“Try to remember, Joan! You
promised me then to fight this mood
if it returned!”

“I remember nothing. I asked you
to show me your work—your note¬
books—and you did not.”

“Yes, yes, I was willing to. But
something happened to us both just
as I was about to open them under
your eyes. Don’t you—can’t you re¬
member what that was?”

Joan shook her head.

“Come, I will show them to you
again. You shall see them all today.
Who knows?—perhaps the same scene
—the same incidents—will bring it
all back to you!”

But Dr. Olivier was disappointed.
Joan was still the same beautiful
automaton as he unlocked his safe and
drew out the precious notebooks.
What in the world, he thought, does
she want to see these things for?
These notebooks that must be com¬
pletely unintelligible to her? And
yet—perhaps it is a good sign. She
is groping for something that will
save her, and feels that the actual
sight of my work will be more con¬
vincing than my own poor presence.

His mind filled with scientific and
professional conjectures of the sort.
Dr. Olivier watched Joan carefully as
he explained that in that precious
little sheaf of notebooks—in those
yellowed papers—lay his hope of ac¬
complishing a revolution in physical

He was almost deceived as she
turned to him, with another transi¬
tion of mood, and threw her arms
about his neck, straining him to her.
But a look at the white, staring faee
killed his hopes. She was not the Joan
he had told of his love; not the girl
who had returned his caresses and
confessed to a similar love.

With a little shiver, Joan strained
Olivier against her breast. Her hand
was on his neck, slowly caressing it
until her fingers felt the pulse of the
vein above his collar. Then, with a
darting, snakelike movement Joan
pressed hard against the spot with the
tip of the beetle’s body that formed
the jewel of the wishing ring.

Olivier’s grip on Joan loosened and
his eyes glazed. He erumpled up into

142

WEIRD TALES

a heap beside the desk and lay
sprawled. The girl snatched the note¬
books and the yellowed sheaf of pa¬
pers. Softly, swiftly, impelled by the
force outside herself, she made her
way out of the laboratory.

Through the inner office she sped,
and out through the waiting room
which Miss Thompson had left light¬
ed when she closed the place for the
day. She snatched from a chair her
cape, concealing the papers under¬
neath, and let herself out of the fa¬
miliar door.

Felix, across the way, started the
engine of his ear as Joan ran down
the steps. The ear moved forward
as Joan sank against the cushions,
still in the daze that had dominated
her during the past hour.

8

L ATE that night Christopher C.

QuiDn made his brisk way down
the street that led past the house of
Dr. Olivier. He stopped in surprize
as he noted that the wing containing
the laboratory was still lighted.

‘ ‘ Good! He is working still on the
experiment,” thought Quinn, and he
whistled to attract the doctor’s at¬
tention.

A seeond and third whistle brought
no response, and Christopher C.
Quinn looked about him. Fine gravel
protected the roots of a tree that
stood in front of the house, where a
piece of the sidewalk had been cut
away, and taking up a handful,
Quinn sent it pattering against the
laboratory windows.

What the deuce! he thought. Surely
the fellow must, have heard him, and
with a sudden foreboding, Quinn
mounted the steps of the doctor’s
house and rang the bell. He had to
ring four times before old Mme.
Franchard, the housekeeper, ap-

Quinn pushed past her, and made
his way through the waiting room and
office. As he burst open the labora¬

tory door, the Irishman groaned. Dr.
Philip Olivier lay stretched out on
the floor beside his laboratory table.

Christopher C. Quinn bent over his
friend and felt his pulse frenziedly.
The white face was set and rigid, the
lips drawn and the eyes glazed. Sure¬
ly life had fled from the body to have
left such a mask! Then the Irish¬
man started. Under his fingers there
was the faintest flicker of pulse in
the doctor’s wrist!

‘ ‘ Quick, Mme. Franchard! ” he
ordered. “Try to get Dr. Graetz, of
the Graetz Radium Institute, on the
telephone! He must have poisoned
himself in an experiment, and Dr.
Graetz would be the best person, if
anyone would.”

Olivier stirred, opening his eyes.
He recognized Quinn and his eyes
tried to convey a message. His tongue
mumbled thickly, but Quinn, bending
close, could not make out the words.
Then the Irishman’s keen eye noted
the tiny prick of a needle on his
friend’s throat. He pointed to it, and
Olivier nodded.

“It’s zodium poison,” mumbled
the doctor, and this time Quinn un¬
derstood. He shrank back in horror.
Olivier tried to tell him what to do,
but his thick tongue refused the task.
He shook his head in despair.

Quinn fumbled with a case of in¬
struments and brought over a hypo¬
dermic syringe. Olivier nodded as he
saw it in his friend’s hands. Then,
by a superhuman effort, he dragged
himself to a kneeling position, cling¬
ing to Quinn, and dragged him across
the room, pointing to a bottle high up
on the shelf.

It was a thin, crystal-like phial, and
as Quinn reached for it excitedly with
one hand, with Olivier clinging to the
other, it almost slipped from his
grasp. The doctor shrank back fear¬
fully, but his friend managed to catch
it against his body with his crooked
elbow, disengaging his other hand to
grasp it.

WINGS OP POWER

143

Somehow Olivier’s mumbling
tongue conveyed to Quinn that he
must give him an injection from this
bottle. The Irishman poured a small
quantity into a glass container from
the laboratory table and looked at it
fearfully.

“Are you sure this is the chem¬
ical t” he asked, shoving the dish un¬
der Olivier’s nose.

The latter nodded, and his drawn
expression of pain decided Quinn. He
would chance it. And dipping the
needle into the strange, mercurial
substance, he took up a small amount
and injected it into the wrist which
Olivier thrust forward.

Quinn watched tensely as Olivier
leaned back against his arm, his eyes
closed in a sort of lethargy. Then, in
a few seconds, the color seemed to
come gradually back to his bluish
skin. His lips lost their drawn ex¬
pression, and his eyes, when he
opened them, were no longer glazed.

A torrent of questions rushed from
the Irishman, but Olivier shook his
head. He stuck out his tongue, as if
trying to limber its paralyzed mus-

At this moment. Dr. Graetz came
into the room. He bent over Olivier
to examine his heart, and his face took
on a serious expression. Olivier tried
to explain the situation to his col-

“Did for myself in an experi¬
ment.” he mumbled. “It’s zodium
poison—”

But the effort had been too much,
and Olivier had fainted.

Dr. Graetz was at the telephone,
giving his concise orders that a mem¬
ber of his staff hurry to Olivier’s
house with pulmotor and oxygen
tanks. As he talked, he kept a watch¬
ful eye on the man stretched out on
the floor, and the expression on his
face was slightly baffled. As Quinn
pointed out to him the tiny needle
prick on his friend’s throat, and
showed him the phial from which, at

the doctor’s bidding, he had given
him an injection, Graetz’s anxiety
deepened.

“Hm! I know,” he muttered.
“Olivier has told me his theories con¬
cerning this hypothetical element. I
have been glad to help him all I could
out of my own knowledge of radium
and its properties.”

“Will he—will he diet” Quinn
asked, his eyes on Olivier’s drawn

“There’s one chance in a thousand
that we can pull him out of this, but
only one chance.”

Dr. Graetz looked in despair at his
younger colleague.

“What a waste, though, if he
should die! He was years ahead of
all of us at the institute, and we knew

Once more Dr. Graetz bent over the
unconscious man on the floor.

“I dare not move him until my as¬
sistant comes with the pulmotor,” he

In a few minutes the door opened
and his assistant entered, followed by
a man bearing the pulmotor and an¬
other with a tank of oxygen.

“Now, sir,” said Dr. Graetz, turn¬
ing to Quinn, “if you will leave us
alone for a few hours, we will do what
we can to save our young friend.”

Quinn waited outside in the doc¬
tor’s office for what seemed to him an
interminable period, but at last the
door to the laboratory opened, and
Graetz beckoned to him.

“He is breathing faintly now,” he
whispered, “and we will want your
help to move him to a comfortable
bed.”

All through the night Quinn sat
upstairs in the hall, outside Olivier’s
bedroom, his keen mind busy with the
problem. Inside that room the two
doctors battled to save the third from
the encroaching menace of death, but
Quinn was no nearer a solution. What
was the mystery of that needle prick
on his friend’s throatt Who had

144

WEIRD TALES

dealt the treacherous injection, and
why t The gray dawn spread over the
sky, but still Quinn pondered.

O N THE same morning, the steam¬
ship Guadeloupe was ready to
sail with the tides, and most of her
passengers were already on board, but
Professor Kurt Maquarri anxiously
walked up and down the dock as the
sky grew steadily lighter.

“It is absurd, unheard of,” he
remonstrated. “I have a pass here
permitting me to carry my new radio
outfit, my own model for an invention,
to the West Indies. Why should there
be any question?”

“Passes are not supposed to be is¬
sued to private persons, sir.”

The young officer who spoke looked
up as another officer came back with
the ship’s captain. The latter exam¬
ined the wishing machine, looked
closely at Professor Maquarri, bent
once more over the machine and final¬
ly shook his nead with decision.

A sudden thought came to the pro¬
fessor. He pulled a letter from his
wallet, and handed it to the captain.

“Lord Hubert Charing, you will
see, who is my late wife’s brother,
specifically mentions that he will be
glad to examine the new radio set
which I intend bringing to Montser¬
rat.”

The attitude of the captain changed
instantly. He glanced at the letter,
and then extended a hand in apology
to the professor. With a curt order,
he turned to a deckhand, and the
wishing machine was carried on board
the Guadeloupe. The Charings were
a power in the island, and large stock¬
holders in this very steamship line.

A S THE Guadeloupe slipped slowly
out of her dock and made her
way down the river, the life of Dr.
Olivier still hung in the balance.

Barred from the room, Christopher
C. Quinn could scarcely contain his
impatience until it was late enough

for the world to be about its activities.
The leaden hours of waiting for the
crisis to pass might at least be spent
in tracing down that license number,
but it was still too early.

The girl had been the last person
with Olivier. He bad been expected
to go out later to his club for dinner,
so Mme. Franchard had not discov¬
ered that anything was amiss.

The girl! That strange, beautiful
creature of mystery. Miss X-Y, as he
had called her to tease Olivier. Miss
X-Y, and she had used Olivier’s own
Zeta-ray to try to murder him.

But why? The thoughts jostled
each other in his head. Why should
she want to kill him? How had she
managed to put her hands on Oli¬
vier’s carefully guarded store of zo-
dium, that store of which he was as
yet so uncertain that he had re¬
frained from publishing his discoveiy
to the world?

All this was absurd, though. He
knew nothing about the girl except
the license number of the car she
came in, and it was only chance that
had made him get that. Well, it should
be the first clue he would hunt to
earth, and with that knowledge in his
hand he would force Olivier to tell
him what he knew.

Why should his friend have been so
anxious to shield the girl? Could he
have fallen in love with her? Quinn
fumed. Those austere men of genius
were just the ones to lose their heads
over a pretty face when the time was

Quinn spent the morning tracking
down the license number of the low,
gray car, but he had finally to admit
that his results were meager. It
belonged, he learned, to one Felix
d ’Acosta, and the garage owner in the
east sixties could tell little of him.

‘ ‘ Comes here alone mostly, sir, ’ ’ he
answered to one of Quinn’s ques¬
tions. “Once, though, now I think of
it, there was a fellow with a beard
sat next him. A cripple he was, I

WINGS OP POWER

145

think. No, a hunchback. They spoke
in some language I couldn’t under¬
stand. Might have been Eyetalian,
or Spanish, maybe. They all sound
the same to me.”

“This man, this Felix d’Acosta, he
was the owner, you say?”

“Well, sir, that’s what he claimed.
License taken out in his name. Use
of the car at all hours. Acted like
the owner all right, except that one
time when they stopped for repairs
and the cripple—no, the hunchback, I
mean—was with him. Seemed to take
orders from the little fellow with the
beard, though of course I couldn’t un¬
derstand what they were saying.”

“Where is the car now? Out with
its owner?”

“No, sir. He paid his bill yester¬
day morning. Said he was going
away on a short trip—didn’t say
where—and might not be back for a
month or two.”

Quinn congratulated himself on
having taken that license number. His
clues might be leading into a blind
alley, as it now appeared, but he was
too good a lawyer, too keen an ama¬
teur detective, to scorn the slightest
trace of a clue. One never could tell
where it might lead.

“Here’s ten dollars for you, my
man, and remember to keep your
mouth shut about this conversation
between us. I’m after that fellow,
d’Acosta, and I don’t want him to
know it There’ll be a cool hundred
in it for you if you’ll say nothing, and
just let me know if he should return.”

The garage owner read the card in
his hand and gasped.

“Not Christopher Columbus Quinn,
the big lawyer?”

Quinn nodded.

“I don’t know how big I am, but
if I’m not mistaken, I am on the trail
of something big, right now.”

He looked keenly at the garage

I shall learn sooner or later whether
you decide to stick to the forces of
law or of lawlessness. ’ ’

C HRISTOPHER C. QUINN’S ela¬
tion dropped, however, as he
made his way back to Dr. Olivier’s
house, where Dr. Graetz and another
physician were watching the patient.

But Dr. Graetz’s face temporarily
reassured him.

“His pulse is more nearly normal,”
the doctor whispered, softly closing
the door of the sickroom, “and he
seems to be resting for the moment,
but it’s too soon to tell whether we
shall be able to pull him through.”
“Could I see him for two min-

Dr. Graetz was doubtful, but Quinn
seemed so certain that the tracing of
an important clue depended on a
word of information from his friend
that the older physician finally con¬
sented to a five-minute interview.

Philip Olivier opened his eyes as
Quinn sat down beside him.

“How did it happen, Phil?”

The impetuous question was out of
the Irishman’s mouth before he had
time to remember his promise to Dr.

Olivier’s eyes darkened, and a
drawn expression twisted his mouth.

“Did for myself in an experi¬
ment, ’ ’ be muttered.

“How did it happen, then, that
there was the prick of a needle in
your throat?”

Quinn’s keen eyes held those of
Olivier.

“Come, Phil, don’t try to hide it
from me. When I first came in, I
spied that prick, and you admitted
itt”

Olivier’s lips were a tight line.
“Yes, then, I do admit the priek,
Quinn, but I warn you, I know what
I’m about. I don’t want any of your
Sherlock Holmes stunts in this. It’s
—it’s a personal matter.”

(Continued on Page 180,1

THE SCARF OF THE
BELOVED

By GREYE LA SPINA

T HE night was dark and
gloomy, but for him it was
better so; the thick darkness,
the approaching storm, all made de¬
tection less probable. Lowering
clouds, scurrying across the sky,
dimmed the sickly rays of the pale
moon. The wind, soughing in the
branches of the cypresses and among
the ghostly tombstones, seemed to car¬
ry indignant and mournful whisper¬
ings from those graves that had es¬
caped the desecration the others had
experienced. Ever and anon, the
faint, scared chirp of some homeward
fluttering bird came softly to his ear.

The night was almost breathless
with expectancy of the coming storm.
The lurid flash of the lightning made
the dense darkness almost palpable.
The fitful warning of those vivid
flashes urged haste upon him; he must
complete his work before the storm
broke in its concentrated fury.

His spade struck heavily against a
leaden coffin. He stopped digging
and whistled cautiously for his assist¬
ant. In a few minutes the coffin had
been pried open, and the shroud
pulled out, bringing rudely with it
the cold clay that lay sleeping so
heavily in death’s long slumber. Pres¬
ently the body fell with heavy thud
upon the bed of the wagon that wait¬
ed just without the cemetery gates.
The second man covered it with sack¬
ing, climbed upon the wagon, and
drove away. The first man began to
fill in the rifled grave with earth.

His task completed, he paused for
a moment as he contemplated the
246

mound rising above that hollow mock¬
ery of a grave. A sudden premoni¬
tion as of evil about to fall upon him
oppressed his spirit. With uncontrol¬
lable impulse, he caught up his tools
and fled from the spot.

The storm was approaching apace.
The muttering of the thunder could
be heard more distinctly as it grew
slowly in volume and then died re¬
luctantly and threateningly away
among the surrounding hills. The
moon looked down from among the
scurrying clouds, her pale and baleful
gleams lighting the solitary scene with
ghostly light.

Among the treetops the vanguards
of the tempest rustled and tossed the
branches with a sound as of souls
sighing in durance. The usual calm
night-calls of insects were hushed be¬
fore the approach of the storm; only
the occasional guttural croak of a
bullfrog disturbed the chill hush that
had fallen upon nature. A bird’s
timid, half-affrighted twitter came
from the bushes near at hand, and the
man glanced casually in that direc¬
tion before turning homeward.

As he glanced, he described in the
moon’s fitful light a soft, fluttering
thing on the ground at his feet. He
leaned down and picked it up. It was
a woman’s silken shawl, such a thing
as his sweetheart wound about her
delicate shoulders when the evening
breezes blew chill. Whence had it

Even as he asked himself, he knew:
it had fallen from the body of thaf
dead whom he had disturbed in its

THE SCARP OP THE BELOVED

147

solemn sleep. An involuntary shud¬
der gripped him. He would have
thrown the thing away, but that its
finding at daybreak would have led
to the discovery of the violated grave,
which might otherwise escape observa-

The wind blew chiller, and yet more
chill. Autumn had set in with a will,
and was sweeping down on the wings
of the flying tempest. The boughs of
the trees swept lower and lower; the
rustling among them grew more audi¬
ble, more pronounced. It was as if
the spirits of the dead were revisiting
the scene of their last resting place,
crying out in horror and loathing
upon the man who had ruthlessly
broken in on the slumber of so many
of their sad company.

Whispering and murmuring and
muttering among the trees, and rush¬
ing around the tall tombstones that
shone with weird whiteness from out
the surrounding gloom, the wind
flung itself upon the solitary figure of
the man, who stood as if frozen to the
spot, his gleaming eyes fixed with a
stony stare on the frail, shimmering,
cobwebby thing in his hands.

Paler than the dead who lay so still
in their quiet rest in the churchyard;
colder than the very touch of death
itself; rigid as the body when the
breath has gone forever; there he
stood, the epitome of awful fear. With
eyeballs starting from their sockets,
open mouth, dilated nostrils, he
seemed the very personification of in¬
credulous horror.

The landscape swept and swirled
around him. The wind sang in his
ears as water sings in the ears of a
drowning man. It tugged and pulled
and beat at him as he stood immova¬
ble, clutched fast in the grasp of an
awful fear, a horrible surmise.

In those outstretched hands lay the
silken trifle, upon which his gaze was
fixed with terrible intensity. The
scarf was that of his promised wife.
Only too well he knew it—that shim¬

mering, lacy scarf he had so often
seen about her shoulders. It was
hers—hers—hers!

I T SEEMED centuries that he stood
there, eons of agony through which
he passed in a fleeting moment. The
appalling uncertainty of the thing
rushed over him overwhelmingly.
The scarf was hers. How, then, came
it about the body of the dead? Her
father had never been a strong man;
perhaps an attack of heart trouble—
something sudden—. The bare idea
that he had profaned that grave, the
grave of her father, lacerated his
heart with remorse.

He dared not admit to himself, in
that moment of horrible dread and
uncertainty, the doubts that began to
assail him. His one idea was that he
must see, and that immediately, the
dead whom his promised wife had
covered with the scarf which he now
held nervelessly in cold, stiff fingers.
Yet the unwelcome belief grew ever
stronger that it was indeed the body
of her father, which his sacrilegious
hand had desecrated unknowingly.
The body of that sacred dead must
at all costs be rescued from the med¬
ical students; must be returned to its
resting place.

Instinctively, while his mind had
not yet consciously formulated the
desire, the man’s limbs bore him rap¬
idly in the wake of the wagon, which
had long since disappeared in the
gloom. He walked rapidly ahead,
hushing the thoughts that hammered
and clamored at the portal of his
brains for admittance.

The road was rough, and the way
long, but he walked steadily forward,
as if in a trance. That the storm
had already begun to batter on the
trees bordering the road, he did not
even notice. The rain had not yet
come, but the wind had sent reinforce¬
ments to aid the vanguard which, dur¬
ing the earlier part of the night, had
been rustling and pushing about

148

WEIRD TALES

among the trees. There was a con¬
tinuous dull roar, as the thunder grew
in volume and came nearer. The
noise of the wagon wheels had died
away, but the dark figure in the road
toiled painfully onward.

XJOW the lights from the medical
-L ' annex, dim through the gloom
and the mists of blurring boughs that
swept backward and forward before
the night wanderer, revealed them¬
selves. The wagon stood without. He
ran to it, panting. It was empty. He
hurried to the dissecting room and
pushed against the door.

No one answered his low call. He
pressed his face against the window
in a vain attempt to see within, but
the curtain had been closely drawn.
At last, replying to his impatient
knocks, a hand lifted it ever so slight¬
ly and a face looked into his, blanch¬
ing as it looked. For a moment the
man outside forgot his errand in the
chilling shudder that swept through
him at sight of that face gloomed
over with shrinking abhorrence.

There was a murmur of lowered
voices. The door opened cautiously
and two or three students whom he
knew emerged and closed it behind
them. Portrayed on every counte¬
nance was that same look of horror
and repugnance and loathing that had
so startled him in the face of that
man who had looked at him from the

He pushed his way toward the
door; they shrank before him as he
advanced. He demanded entrance in
a voice that he scarcely knew as his

own, a voice that died away, failing
him at the looks of dread and frozen
horror on the faces confronting him.
No one spoke. Each gazed at the
others, avoiding his proximity as they
might have avoided contact with a
man stricken with pestilence. He
thought he heard a whispered word—
"Nemesis!”—but it came from as re¬
mote distance as might have come a
dream voice.

Once more he made his request, but

demands. A student pointed word¬
lessly, and he gathered from the ges¬
ture that the way was open to him.
As he grasped the knob, the students
with one accord melted away from
that spot, unhallowed by its associa¬
tions with robbery of the grave.

The man crossed the threshold and
the wind pushed shut the door behind
him with its invisible, malignant fin¬
gers. He moved across the room, still
holding the silken scarf in his nerve¬
less fingers. He paused before the
table, whereon lay the dead whom he
had that night dragged out of the
peaceful grave.

With a quick gesture he tore away
the sheet that concealed the cold and
lifeless clay.

A tress of hair, rich, waving, au¬
burn, trailed upon the floor.

One horrible, dissonant scream of
bitter anguish shrilled from his Ups,
reverberated through the room, and
wailed out on the chill night wind into
the ears of the shuddering students
dashing across the campus.

The body was that of his promised
bride!

Author of “Dagon" “The Rats in the Walls" etc.

1 REPEAT to you, gentlemen, that
your inquisition is fruitless. De¬
tain me here forever if you will j
confine or execute me if you must
have a victim to propitiate the illusion
you call justice; but I can say no more
than I have said already. Everything
that I can remember, I have told with
perfect candor. Nothing has been dis¬
torted or concealed, and if anything
remains vague, it is only because of
the dark cloud which has come over
my mind—that cloud and the nebul¬
ous nature of the horrors which
brought it upon me.

Again I say. I do not know what
has become of Harley Warren, though
I think—almost hope—that he is in
peaceful oblivion, if there be any¬
where so blessed a thing. It is true
that I have for five years been his
closest friend, and a partial sharer of
his terrible researches into the un¬
known. I will not deny, though my
memory is uncertain and indistinct,
that this witness of yours may have
seen us together as he says, on the
Gainsville pike, walking toward Big
Cypress Swamp, at half past 11 on
that awful night. That we bore elec¬
tric lanterns, spades, and a curious
coil of wire with attached instru¬
ments, I will even affirm; for these

things all played a part in the single
hideous scene which remains burned
into my shaken recollection. But of
what followed, and of the reason I
was found alone and dazed on the
edge of the swamp next morning, I
must insist that I know nothing save
what I have told you over and over
again. You say to me that there is
nothing in the swamp or near it which
could form the setting of that fright¬
ful episode. I reply that I knew noth¬
ing beyond what I saw. Vision or
nightmare it may have been—vision
or nightmare I fervently hope it was
—yet it is all that my mind retains
of what took place in those shocking
hours after we left the sight of men.
And why Harley Warren did not re¬
turn, he or his shade—or some name¬
less thing I cannot describe—alone
can tell.

As I have said before, the weird
studies of Harley Warren were well
known to me, and to some extent
shared by me. Of his vast collection
of strange, rare books on forbidden
subjects I have read all that are writ¬
ten in the languages of which I am
master; but these are few as compared
with those in languages I cannot un¬
derstand. Most, I believe, are in
Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book

150

WEIRD TALES

which brought on the end—the book
which he carried in his pocket out of
the world—was written in characters
whose like I never saw elsewhere.
Warren would never tell me just what
was in that book. As to the nature
of our studies—must I say again that
I no longer retain full comprehension?
It seems to me rather merciful that I
do not, for they were terrible studies,
which I pursued more through reluc¬
tant fascination than through actual
inclination. Warren always domi¬
nated me, and sometimes I feared him.
I remember how I shuddered at his
facial expression on the night before
the awful happening, when he talked
so incessantly of his theory, why cer¬
tain corpses never decay, but rest firm
and fat in their tombs for a thousand
years. But I do not fear him now,
for I suspect that he has known hor¬
rors beyond my ken. Now I fear for

Once more I say that I have no
clear idea of our object on that night.
Certainly, it had much to do with
something in the boob which Warren
carried with him—that ancient book
in undecipherable characters which
had come to him from India a month
before—but I swear I do not know
what it was that we expected to find.
Your witness says he saw us at half
past 11 on the Gainsville pike, headed
for Big Cypress Swamp. This is prob¬
ably true, but I have no distinct mem¬
ory of it. The picture seared into my
soul is of one scene only, and the hour
must have been long after midnight;
for a waning crescent moon was high
in the vaporous heavens.

T HE place was an ancient ceme¬
tery; so ancient that I trembled
at the manifold signs of immemorial
years. It was in a deep, damp hol¬
low, overgrown with rank grass, moss,
and curious creeping weeds, and filled
with a vague stench which my idle
fancy associated absurdly with rot¬
ting stone. On every hand were the

signs of neglect and decrepitude, and
I seemed haunted by the notion that
Warren and I were the first living
creatures to invade a lethal silence of
centuries. Over the valley’s rim a
wan, waning crescent moon peered
through the noisome vapors that
seemed to emanate from unheard-of
catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering
beams I could distinguish a repellent
array of antique slabs, urns, ceno¬
taphs, and mausolean facades; all
crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-
stained, and partly concealed by the
gross luxuriance of the unhealthy
vegetation.

My first vivid impression of my
own presence in this terrible necrop¬
olis concerns the act of pausing with
Warren before a certain half-obliter¬
ated sepulcher, and of throwing down
some burdens which we seemed to
have been carrying. I now observed
that I had with me an electric lantern
and two spades, whilst my companion
was supplied with a similar lantern
and a portable telephone outfit. No
word was uttered, for the spot and
the task seemed known to us; and
without delay we seized our spades
and commenced to clear away the
grass, weeds, and drifted earth from
the flat, archaic mortuary. After un¬
covering the entire surface, which
consisted of three immense granite
slabs, we stepped back some distance
to survey the charnel scene; and War¬
ren appeared to make some mental
calculations. Then he returned to the
sepulcher, and using his spade as a
lever, sought to pry up the slab lying
nearest to a stony ruin which may
have been a monument in its day. He
did not succeed, and motioned to me
to come to his assistance. Finally our
combined strength loosened the stone,
which we raised and tipped to one

The removal of the slab revealed a
black aperture, from which rushed an
effluence of miasma] gases so nauseous
that we started back in horror. After

THE STATEMENT OF RANDOLPH CARTER

151

an interval, however, we approached
the pit again, and found the exhala¬
tions less unbearable. Our lanterns
disclosed the top of a flight of stone
steps, dripping with some detestable
ichor of the inner earth, and bordered
by moist walls encrusted with niter.
And now for the first time my memory
records verbal discourse, Warren ad¬
dressing me at length in his mellow
tenor voice; a voice singularly unper¬
turbed by our awesome surroundings.

"I’m sorry to have to ask you to
stay on the surface,” he said, "but it
would be a crime to let anyone with
yonr frail nerves go down there. You
can’t imagine, even from what you
have read and from what I’ve told
you, the things I shall have to see and
do. It’s fiendish work, Carter, and I
doubt if any man without ironclad
sensibilities could ever see it through
and come up alive and sane. I don’t
wish to offend you, and Heaven
knows I’d be glad enough to have you
with me; but the responsibility is' in a
certain sense mine, and I couldn’t
drag a bundle of nerves like you down
to probable death or madness. I tell
you, you can’t imagine what the thing
is really like! But I promise to keep
you informed over the telephone of
every move—you see I’ve enough wire
here to reach to the center of the earth
and back!”

I can still hear, in memory, those
coolly spoken words; and I can still
remember my remonstrances. I
seemed desperately anxious to accom¬
pany my friend into those sepulchral
depths, yet he proved inflexibly ob¬
durate. At one time he threatened to
abandon the expedition if I remained
insistent; a threat which proved ef¬
fective, since he alone held the key
to the thing. All this I can still re¬
member, though I no longer know
what manner of thing we sought.
After he had obtained my reluctant
acquiescence in his design, Warren
picked up the reel of wire and ad¬
justed the instruments. At his nod I

took one of the latter and seated my¬
self upon an aged, discolored grave¬
stone close by the newly uncovered
aperture. Then he shook my hand,
shouldered the coil of wire, and dis¬
appeared within that indescribable

For a minute I kept sight of the
glow of his lantern, and heard the
rustle of the wire as he laid it down
after him; but the glow soon disap¬
peared abruptly, as if a turn in the
stone staircase had been encountered,
and the sound died away almost as
quickly. I was alone, yet bound to
the unknown depths by those magic
strands whose insulated surface lay
green beneath the struggling beams
of that waning crescent moon.

I N THE lone silence of that hoary
and deserted city of the dead, my
mind conceived the most ghastly fan¬
tasies and illusions; and the grotesque
shrines and monoliths seemed to as¬
sume a hideous personality—a half¬
sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed
to lurk in the darker recesses of the
weed-choked hollow and to flit as in
some blasphemous ceremonial proces¬
sion past the portals of the moldering
tombs in the hillside; shadows which
could not have been cast by that
pallid, peering crescent moon.

I constantly consulted my watch by
the light of my electric lantern, and
listened with feverish anxiety at the
receiver of the telephone; but for
more than a quarter of an hour heard
nothing. Then a faint clicking came
from the instrument, and I called
down to my friend in a tense voice.
Apprehensive as I was, I was never¬
theless unprepared for the words
which came up from that uncanny
vault in accents more alarmed and
quivering than any I had heard be¬
fore from Harley Warren. He who
had so calmly left me a little while
previously, now called from below in
a shaky whisper more portentous than
the loudest shriek:

152

WEIRD TALES

* ‘ God! If yon could see what I am

I could not answer. Speechless, I
could only wait. Then came the fren¬
zied tones again:

“Carter, it’s terrible—monstrous—
unbelievable!”

This time my voice did not fail me,
and I poured into the transmitter a
flood of excited questions. Terrified,
I continued to repeat, “Warren, what
is it? What is it?”

Once more came the voice of my
friend, still hoarse with fear, and now
apparently tinged with despair:

“I can’t tell you, Carter! It’s too
utterly beyond thought—I dare not
tell you—no man could know it and
live—Great God! I never dreamed of
this!”

Stillness again, save for my now
incoherent torrent of shuddering in¬
quiry. Then the voice of Warren in
a pitch of wilder consternation:

“Carter! for the love of God, put
back the slab and get out of this if
you can! Quick!—leave everything
else and make for the outside—it’s
your only chance! Do as I say, and
don’t ask me to explain!”

I heard, yet was able only to repeat
my frantic questions. Around me
were the tombs and the darkness and
the shadows; below me, some peril be¬
yond the radius of the human imag¬
ination. But my friend was in greater
danger than I, and through my fear I
felt a vague resentment that he should
deem me capable of deserting him un¬
der such circumstances. More click¬
ing, and after a pause a piteous cry
from Warren:

“Beat it! For God’s sake, put back
the slab and beat it. Carter!”

Something in the boyish slang of
my evidently stricken companion un¬
leashed my faculties. I formed and
shouted a resolution, “Warren, brace
up! I’m coming down!” But at this

offer the tone of my auditor changed
to a scream of utter despair:

“Don’t! You can’t understand!
It’s too late—and my own fault. Put
back the slab and run—there’s noth¬
ing else you or anyone can do now!”

The tone changed apin, this time
acquiring a softer quality, as of hope¬
less resignation. Yet it remained
tense through anxiety for me.

“Quick—before it’s too late!”

I tried not to heed him; tried to
break through the paralysis which
held me, and to fulfil my vow to rush
down to his aid. But his next whisper
found me still held inert in the chains
of stark horror.

* ‘ Carter—hurry! It’s no use—you
must go—better one than two—the
slab—”

A pause, more clicking, then the
faint voice of Warren:

“Nearly over now—don’t make it
harder—cover up those damned steps
and run for your life—you’re losing
time—so long, Carter—won’t see you
again.”

Here Warren’s whisper swelled into
a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a
shriek fraught with all the horror of
the ages—

“Curse these hellish things—le¬
gions—My God! Beat it! Beat it!
BEAT IT!”

After that was silence. I know not
how many interminable eons I sat
stupefied; whispering, muttering,
calling, screaming into that telephone.
Over and over again through those
eons I whispered and muttered, called,
shouted, and screamed, “Warren!
Warren! Answer me—are you
there?”

And then there came to me the
crowning horror of all—the unbeliev¬
able, unthinkable, almost unmention¬
able thing. I have said that eons
seemed to elapse after Warren
shrieked forth his last despairing

DEATH

153

•warning, and that only my own cries
now broke the hideous silence. But
after a while there was a further
clicking in the receiver, and I strained
my ears to listen. Again 1 called
down, “Warren, are you there?” and
in answer heard the thing which has
brought this cloud over my mind. I
do not try, gentlemen, to account for
that thing —that voice—nor can I ven¬
ture to describe it in detail, since the
first words took away my conscious¬
ness and created a mental blank which
reaches to the time of my awakening
in the hospital. Shall I say that the
voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous;

remote; unearthly; inhuman; disem¬
bodied? What shall I say? It was
the end of my experience, and is the
end of my story. I heard it, and knew
no more—heard it as I sat petrified
in that unknown cemetery in the hol¬
low, amidst the crumbling stones and
the falling tombs, the rank vegetation
and the miasmal vapors—heard it
well up from the innermost depths of
that damnable open sepulcher as I
watched amorphous, necrophagous
shadows dance beneath an accursed
waning moon.

And this is what it said:

"You fool, Warren is DEAD!"

DEATH

By JAMES C. BARDIN

M OST men fear and dread
death, especially if they al¬
low themselves to contem¬
plate it when they are in no apparent
danger of experiencing it. The law’s
final punishment is death. The pangs
of death have been held up before us
by the supreme artists as the most
frightful of human calamities.

But is death the terrible thing that
human imagination pictures it? Is
the moment of the separation of body
and soul as dreadful as we suppose?

The evidence of observers, from re¬
mote antiquity until the present, in¬
dicates that we poor humans, when
faced by the prospect of death, and
when plunged into the terror that
thought of personal extinction always
brings along with it, confuse death
itself with what may come after. We
really fear, not the wrench that pulls
the reluctant soul from the agonized
body, but we fear the destiny that
awaits us beyond the grave. And
death itself is usually painless and
unregarded by the dying.

Aristotle and Cicero affirm that
death brought about by old age is
without pain; and Plato tells us that
death caused by syncope is accom¬
panied by pleasant sensations. He
goes farther and asserts that even
violent death is not wholly lacking in
pleasurable elements. The Greeks
were more or less indifferent to death;
but in some respects, popular super¬
stitions gave rise among them to pe¬
culiar dread of certain forms of
death. Drowning was peculiarly ab¬
horrent to them, either because they
believed that the souls of those who
died in this way had to wander with¬
out rest for a hundred years; or be¬
cause, conceiving the soul to be of a
fiery nature, they believed that its
greatest enemy was water, and that
water would quench or at least serious¬
ly damage the subtle fiery essence of
their being. Drowning is, however,
regarded as one of the pleasantest
forms of death, and men who
have been dragged from the water
unconscious and on the very threshold

questioned sincerity make it doubtful
whether the law has succeeded in find¬
ing ways of putting criminals to death
in a painful manner. The great scien-

R AIN, gentle, relentless, soul-
soaking. It seeped through
the elms sadly, whimpered
around gray stone cornices; and from
a distance the wind brought tales of
how it pattered upon the sea below
the ragged cliffs. Only soft April
rain, but Ermengarde grew cold,
watching, and shut the window. Then
she pulled close the somber velvet cur¬
tains, though they could not shut out
the sound. That whimpering! As
she went toward the broad hearth
where a small fire burned, she drew
her dark shawl tightly around her.

The room with its high, beamed
ceiling, the carved table and the tapes¬
tries which a light draft ruffled eerily
—how its familiar things stood out
like so many impotent, disregarded
selves: the white parchment-covered
volume he had read, the candelabra
that had lighted the reading, the slim,
pointed dagger with the emerald-
studded hilt, flung carelessly on the
table, a lute with a broken string.
They were eloquent of death. She sat
down wearily in a tall chair before
the fire and rested her elbows on the
arms, her hands touching each other,
the long white fingers pointed upward.
She lifted one arched black eyebrow
so that deep lines ran across her white

forehead up to the roots of lusterless
black hair.

Now she would go over it again, as
if for the first time, go over it in the
quaint, half-mad question and answer
with which she tortured herself.

“Dead.”

“Deadt”

“Yes.”

“Who is dead?”

“Fayrian, whom you love—golden¬
haired Fayrian.”

“Yes, yes, I remember!”

"Payrian was killed.”

“Who killed him?”

“You—you who loved him.”

“I remember.”

With an oblique glance of her
heavy-lashed eyes she saw the long
table. It had been set so: there had
been Polevay; at the far end, herself;
and here, Payrian with the poison in
his cup. She it was who had put the
poison there, but they had hanged
Polevay because he had once threat¬
ened to kill Payrian. It did not mat¬
ter that Polevay was hanged, for he
was a bad man, already scarlet with
other murders. She had not wanted
to die, because hanging would mean
that her white neck would be broken,
her face turned purple. To die—it
would hurt: and Payrian would not

156

WEIRD TALES

want that—not revenge, for he loved
her. Rather he would have wished her
to go out to death easily, with all her
white, lusterless beauty untouched,
without tears to dim her slanting,
violet-pupiled eyes. A deep shudder
ran over her. She had killed him,
madly, jealously. And yet she had
known that the woman with the corn-
silk hair and candid smile could not
have held him long—it was a fancy.
For his love was built upon Tier as
upon a foundation of stone; his soul
was anchored to hers as a bright craft
is anchored in a troubled water.

When in her anger the poison
slipped into the cup so easily, she had
not known how horrible it would be.
She had not guessed that he would
WTithe and twist like a hound whose
meat has been filled with fine-ground
glass, nor that he would whimper,
like a child. That was it: the whim¬
pering of the rain at the cornices. It
made her cold. It was not right that
Fayrian, who was brave and songful,
should die like a dog. He would not
have been afraid of death, but he had
wanted a glorious passing: a battle, a
duel for his honor, a plunge from a
mountain height. Strange, how men
could endure blood and horror and
yet cringe at a little pain, like chil¬
dren ! He had whimpered. Why had
she not thrust the emerald-hilted dag¬
ger into his heart t No, she could not
have done that—his soft flesh—blood
on her fingers—a red stain on his liz¬
ard-colored doublet—no! It had not
been fair; but he was gentle and had
loved her: surely he would not want
revenge! And she had ioved him—
she had killed him for her love.

Song, little rushes of tender words,
deep, serious lights sifting into his
bright eyes—how empty of these
things the house was! And yet there
was a kind of breathlessness about the
silence—the breathlessness that comes
before an expected footfall, a longed-
for voice. The stillness listened. The
emptiness expected to be filled. Death!

Soon, soon, please God, she might
wake to feel a slim, strong hand over
her shaking one, a voice: “Foolish,
foolish. You are dreaming!” She
shut her eyes and tried to imagine it;
but no, she was not dreaming.

Then all of a sudden the mute ex¬
pectancy of the somber room seemed
filled. A heavy shower of rain
crashed down outside: it was like
calls, like footfalls, and through it the
breeze wandered like a weird song.
Scarcely knowing why, she ran to the
window and pulled back the purple
curtains, to look out. She opened it.
A flurry of rain blew in and the drops
were like wet fingers touching her
face. Then, as suddenly as it had
started, the downpour slackened again
into a seeping drizzle. Tears falling
sadly through the leaves, making them
shine in the patch of light the win¬
dow threw out in the darkness. Little
trembling sobs of wind against the
stones. He had wanted to die splen¬
didly! Vaguely she had a sense of
contact with what was outside. It
swept over her all at once like the
knowledge of a physical presence.
That sadness of the rain was human—
human pain. She leaned far through
the window so that her hair, face and
bosom were wet and cool. Then she
heard him whimpering, whimpering.

“Coneetta! Concetta!” she called
and fell back from the window, in a
shudder; and in a moment she was in
the arms of the ponderous, wrinkled
old woman who served her.

"Lady Ermengarde, dear—there,
there!”

She was weeping. The curse of
tearless days was lifted in sobs that
broke the bitter dam of dry unreality
and longing.

“The rain, Concetta! Oh — the

“There, there! I will shut the rain
out. The dampness is spotting the
curtains!”

FAYRIAN

157

She lifted her face wildly from the
old woman’s shonlder.

“No, you will shut him out! I want
the rain. Stay with me, Concetta; I
am frightened.”

“Yes—now my dear, dear lady, let
me take you to your room, where you
can lie in your bed and rest. ”

“No. I shall sleep here and you
must sit beside me. I shall sit in the
chair by the fire, for I am cold.”

“Very well, and I will close the
window for you. ’ ’

“No, no! Leave it open, I say.”
She caught the wrinkled arm in
her long fingers. The old woman took
her to her chair and muffled the dark
shawl around her, then sat at a dis¬
tance on a low bench; taking out some
bit of band-work she plied her Angers
busily. Ermengarde kept her burn¬
ing eyes upon the window, and little
by little the rain seeped into her con¬
sciousness as it did through the elms
outside. The feeling of it, the sound
of it, permeated her, a film over her
utter weariness; and beneath a cer¬
tain trembling fear there was a warm
sensation of nearness, the touch of
loved hands. She closed her eyes.

“CO I was only dreaming?”

She started at the touch of a
hand on hers and opened her eyes
quickly. Only Concetta’s hand,
wrinkled and hard! Where was she?
Oh, yes, she had slept by the fire all
night; and now there were ashes be¬
fore her and the room was crossed by
a bright bar of sunshine. The old
woman was offering her something to
eat. Today she did not have that old
heavy wakening, knowing that little
by little a dreadful knowledge would
creep back into her consciousness. She
woke in the full realization of it. Fay-
rian was dead. She had hilled him.
Then there had been rain, sweet and
intimate, that refreshed her heart,
and now sunshine that stretched like
a warm hand into the room. The
lute, the dagger, the book, those elo¬

quent selves were no longer pitiful.
They looked somehow as if they had
been lately touched by him. The pic¬
ture of his father that hung across
from the tapestries, usually so solemn
a face, had been changed by the sun,
too: it looked years younger, like
Fayrian himself, and a shadow falling
near the lips made it look as if he were
smiling sadly. Ermengarde was sad.
It was good to be sad after the horrid
weeks of stillness—good to grieve
abundantly.

When Ermengarde had eaten, Con-
eetta brought a comb and combed out
the dull masses of her hair, then piled
them up again with a great tortoise-

“This morning I shall walk outside,
Concetta.”

“But last night’s rain—the ground
will be damp—”

“Today, somehow, I do not think
that it will hurt me.”

And she went out to walk in the
light. As the full flood of sunshine
struck her and she put her satin shoe
into the damp grass, a warm soft wind
flung itself about her shoulders, flut¬
tering her black shawl. Arms, arms
enfolding her—the wind was that!
She rested herself against its force,
closing her eyes.

‘ ‘ Fayrian! Fayrian 1 ’ ’

It whispered back to her and
stirred uneasily, discontentedly; but
always it touched, caressed. The
dampness sank through her shoes as
she walked in the grass, and as it
melted through the light soles to her
feet she shivered with pleasure—
touch! Suddenly she wished to feel
the grass with her naked feet, so she
stripped off the shoes and walked with
them in her hand. There was a kind
of ecstasy in her contact with the
ground. She caught her breath
quickly.

“So he is there, too!”

With a rush of tenderness she
pulled down a wet bough of blossoms
so that it touched her face—kisses!

"n “ ”“« i “ «• *

jiftar-tiran

•wSSSSik sasSU?®
s!>3HESr T ' H *“"' hl

FAYRIAN

THE JUNGLE
PRESENCE

By DICK HEINE

1 BELIEVE that if I had been less
fatigued mentally and physical¬
ly, I should have escaped in some
degree the agony of that terrible night
—the night that shall never be for¬
gotten while I linger in the flesh.

The Burman sun had finished its
scorching course for the day and was
sinking behind a dust-and-haze hori¬
zon, painting the sky and leaving very
little breeze to cool the tired men and
beasts whose day was done. The quiet
of the evening fell upon me as I
walked toward my bungalow through
lanes of thirsty green. I had worked
hard that day; the company’s ware¬
house man would have his hands full
to handle the large number of boxes
I had shipped. I rested outside half
an hour before going in for the bath
and clean, white clothes. Then, re¬
freshed and cool, I ate the light sup¬
per my Chinese boy, Loon Koo, had
prepared for me.

The moon had risen when I went
to the veranda to sit and smoke. I
propped my feet up and faced the
wide grove and lawn. The jagged
edge of a large palm leaf hung over
the face of the moon, cutting the yel¬
low disk into triangles. I sat quietly
for an hour and enjoyed pipe after
pipe.

As I was thinking of retiring, I felt
a hot breeze coming in from the grove.
The air was hot, oppressive beyond
anything I had ever experienced at
evening. At once I became uneasy.
The nicotine had made me restless,
and a sinking, apprehensive feeling
came over me. Then came the hint
of the presence—the evil presence.

The realization that I was being
watched filled me with a horrid dread.
The thought of impending danger, an
indescribable something about me that
sought to do me hurt, made my heart
quake with fear. A man shaking,
sickened, terrorized with fear! The
very shame of it cut me to the quick.
I leapt to my feet and dashed into the
house. My forehead was wet with
sweat and my cheeks were pale. I
drank some liquor and paced the

After three quarters of an hour I
managed to brace up my nerves a lit¬
tle. I would not yield to the evil will
of the presence without. And so, de¬
termined that I would not be driven
from my own veranda by an imagi¬
nary danger, I returned to the porch
and stood by a roof-post. The hot
wave still prevailed, and I felt my
nervousness returning. Then, as I
looked into the moonlit grove, I heard
a sigh very near to me; but in front,
behind, or where, I could not tell—
only near. A moment later there came
to my nostrils a peculiar smell, a foul
scent from the far-hung tangles of
rotting vegetation. I stood still and
thought I saw in the air before my
face two little green sparks of light
shining with the brilliance of polished
diamonds.

My strength came. I had seen
something material and feared no
longer. The sweat cooled. I passed
my hand before my face, and the
lights were gone. I felt that I had
met and conquered a foe, half mate¬
rial and, perhaps, half illusion. I
could retire and sleep in peace.

THE JUNGLE PRESENCE

161

Loon Koo slept in the rear of the
bungalow and had gone to bed when
I went in the second time. My room
was in the front, with a window open¬
ing to the porch. I found the room
cooler with the windows closed, as it
barred the hot breeze.

For fifteen minutes I deliberated
with myself about the needle. I end¬
ed by using it. I shot it home piti¬
lessly and my pierced muscle quivered
under the thrust. There were many
little marks on my arms. I felt
ashamed. But the sleep, the restful
oblivion—could anything be sweeter?
Before the drug had begun its work I
fastened the room up tighter and lay
down. It was close, of course, but
why should I mind that? I should
sleep; my breath came deep and

'C'allino, falling through space,
* weightless and devoid of reason.
A million miles. That’s not far to
fall ... ten times a million miles.
I fell, I fell, the stars and planets but
sparks of light and I myself, only a
small, golden pin-head. . . .

What is myself? The river was
deep . . . the grass was green . . .
I am taller than he is . . . his mouth
is funny ... his eyes are green . . .
they are diamonds. . . What makes
him move his head so? He wheezes
... he sighs . . . that’s Old Mother
Hubbard . . . that spider works . . .
sand . . . salt . . . water . . . blue
. . . rainbow colors . . . what? Sense¬
less and falling through space. What
is space ? It all happened in the frac¬
tion of a second—crazy nothings, dis¬
tractions of a tortured brain. Was I
dreaming? Am I dreaming? I am
dreaming. . . .

Something seems awfully heavy,
hot, oppressive, magnetic. It’s not
heavy near my face! it has no weight
on my face, but down on my legs the
weight is terrible. What makes it so
heavy? The coverings are not pulled

Spending months in a moment, dec¬
ades in a second, I broke the spell
and became conscious. This state
constituted only a few perceptions.
My eyes were closed. I was myself,
resting where I always rested—in
space; for I am space, the beginning
and ending of space. I was some¬
where. There was the evil presence,
the hot presence. There hovered over
me the hint of danger, not now but
impending. If I knew what that dan¬
ger was, I might resist.

The weight of the hint bore down
upon my upper body, a spiritual
weight with a crushing force. The
heavy, material weight on my abdo¬
men and legs was nothing compared
to it. The greater the power of the
evil, the heavier was its atmosphere.
I had thought that this idea of a
crushing weight had been a part of
the dream, but consciousness proved

I began to be more aware of my
body. My hands were folded across
my chest and suffered from the pres¬
sure. My eyes would not open. There
seemed to be a power above me that
kept them closed, and I did not want
to open them. I felt that when they
did open, I should lose the poise of
my high-strung nerves. The sweat
steeped from my skin. My forehead
felt as if the most powerful magnet
in existence were trying to draw out
my brains. If I opened my eyes, the
magnet would get in its work. Then
it occurred to me that perhaps I had
seemingly died, been buried alive,
come to life again, and that the heavi¬
ness torturing me was the foul air of
a coffin. I had no record of time.

Suddenly I felt the veil of weight
beginning to lift. My eyelids twitched
—they would open. Unable to resist,
I opened my eyes wide.

Apparently I was in my room. The
moonlight came in wan swords
through the slits in the blinds. There
was barely enough light to make ob¬
jects perceptible. I heard a faint

WEIRD TALES

sigh, though somewhat louder than
the one I had heard on the veranda.
Then there came that jungle odor,
that putrid breath from distant wilds.

Turning my eyes upward, I per¬
ceived the cause of my terror. There,
with its expanded neck and devilish
head poised in a curve within six
inches of my face, its eyes staring
straight into the depths of mine, its
body coiled on my lower limbs, was
the horror of creation—a giant cobra
de capello. . . .

S omehow a strange calm came over
me, and I looked away from the
snake. Then I closed my eyes and
accepted darkness and death. It
seemed that I waited hours for the
blow. If I made a movement, per¬
haps it would come. I decided to end
the agony by moving. Just as I felt
the muscles respond for the movement
of my legs, I changed my mind—what
little reason I had left. I would try
though-

I thought of Koo. If he were asleep,
I could not wake him by sound, but
perhaps I could by thought. I turned
on the full current. Koo . . . Koo . . .
Koo . . . Koo . . . Koo. ... A hun¬
dred times I thought his name and
blessed his yellow skin. . . .

After what seemed an interminable
period I heard a light footfall some¬

where. I opened my eyes. A silent
flash streamed toward me from the
other side of the room near the hall
door. The snake lifted its coils from
my lower limbs, its oppressive mag¬
netism from my upper body, and
with a mighty leap, collected its
length in a writhing mass upon the
bedroom floor.

Koo had risked my life by piercing
the snake’s head with a silencer-bullet
just a fraction of a second before it
was to have struck. The leap from
the bed was aided by the tense mus¬
cles prepared for the blow at me.

I sprang from the bed and switched
on the light. Loon Koo stood with
pistol trained on the now harmless
head, and the reptile’s reflex action
thrashed its tail about the floor.

“How did you know, Koo?” I

“Hot bleeze die down . . . night
cool off ... me feelem dwaft and
wakee. Hear something in hall . . .
see slaykee . . . hunt long time for
gun . . . then shoot. . .

And Koo smiled, calm and collect¬
ed, as is ever his kind.

I looked into the mirror. To attest
the agony I had suffered I saw that
my eyebrows stood straight out from
the skin, and my forehead was
speckled with little beads of sweated
blood!

T HE readers of Weird Tales have spoken in no uncertain terms. Every
mail brings to the editor’s desk letters protesting against any lessening
of the “weird” quality of the stories in this magazine. “Let Weird
Tales remain weird” is the tenor of the communications; “you have a maga¬
zine that prints a type of stories we can get nowhere else, and if a few of yonr
readers are horrified by gruesome tales, then let them go elsewhere; but don’t
spoil the magazine for those of us who like eery fiction.”

“Keep Weird Tales weird and succeed,” writes Fred E. Norris, of Hunt¬
ington, West Virginia.

“Please do not lessen by one degree the horror of your tales,” writes Mrs.
J. Ruopp, of Los Angeles.

“Weird Tales would disregard its slogan, ‘The Unique Magazine,’ if it
failed to give us those stories which are unique,” writes Ruth E. Sapulos, of
Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

There are a few voices on the other side. L. Phillips, Jr., of Berkeley,
California, writes: “It seems to me that there are plenty of ideas for weird
and hair-raising stories without invading the graves of the dead. I think
you should cut out what you term the ‘necrophilic’. The old ‘Black Cat’
was one of the most widely read magazines of its day. They went in for the
weird and unusual, too, but they never printed anything sane people would
turn from in disgust. No rotting corpses in theirs. The mysterious, the
supernatural, the startling and bizarre from all lands and all times—I wouldn’t
place a single limitation on locale, historical period or race, but I would draw
the line at the grave. Even in fiction the dead have a right to rest in peace.”

The vote of our readers, to date, is overwhelmingly in favor of a few
horror stories in each issue. But those who want cannibalistic and blood-
drinking stories (specifically those who indorse Mr. Eddy’s “The Loved
Dead” and Mr. Miller’s “The Hermit of Ghost Mountain”) are as few as
those who want no horror stories at all. We bow before the decision that has
been made by you, the readers; and along with other bizarre and weird tales
we shall continue to print horror stories—but they will be clean.

We recently attended a performance of "Romeo and Juliet”; and as we
heard Jane Cowl deliver Juliet’s speech before she takes the poison, we realized
that the same speech, if published in a Weird Tales story, would be de¬
nounced by some of our indignant readers (not many, but surely by some) as
“gruesome”, “shocking”, “offensive”. A few of our good friends would un¬
doubtedly write letters asking us why we so offended against good taste as

164

WEIRD TALES

to draw such a “disgusting” picture of Juliet awaking at midnight in the

“Where, for these many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are packed;

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,

Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,

At some hours of the night spirits resort:—

Alack, alack! is it not like that I,

So early waking—what with loathsome smells,

And shrieks like mandrakes’ tom out of the earth,

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad—

Oh, if I wake, shall I not lie distraught,

Environed with all these hideous fears.

And madly play with my forefathers’ joints,

And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?

And in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,

As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?”

But there will be no indignant letters, because we have quoted this from
the thousand-souled Shakespeare. And what about “Hamlet”, with the
stage strewn with dead bodies in the last act? And the ghost of “the blood-
boltered Banquo” at Macbeth’s banquet? And that gruesome scene where
Macbeth washes his hands of the murdered Duncan’s blood:

“What hands are these ? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes.

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red.”

We fear Shakespeare would fare quite badly at the hands of some of our
readers. And the gentle Poe, who is still America’s favorite author, and
growing in popularity year by year (although the man himself died poor and
neglected seventy-five years ago)—how would Poe fare if he were writing to¬
day? Hardly better than he fared during his life. But the weird tales of
that great master remain as a precious heritage to the whole world.

Considering the present unceasing popularity of the works of this great
master of weird literature, we have no fear for the future of Weird Tales
so long as the magazine remains weird.

And now a word as to the series of true tales of witchcraft by Seabury
Quinn, which begins in the March issue under the title of “Servants of Sa¬
tan”. Mr. Quinn is familiar to the readers of Weird Tales as author of the
series of "Weird Crimes”, and also “The Phantom Farmhouse” and “Out
of the Long Ago”.

The first four stories deal with witchcraft in America; the first one, next
month, being “The Salem Horror”. These stories are an important contribu¬
tion to American historical literature. Mr. Quinn does more than merely trans¬
mute the musty court records and transcripts of evidence into fascinating
true narratives as gripping as any fiction: he takes the readers into the
atmosphere and spirit of old Salem, and makes you know the historic figures
of our superstitious New England forefathers as if you were there in per¬
son. This is high art. And Mr. Quinn’s narratives are as unbiased as they
are vivid.

“Most writers, commenting on the Salem delusion,” Quinn writes in a
letter to the editor, “are inclined to find excuses for it in the superstitious

WEIRD TALES

state of the public mind, but I’m inclined to think that if there were any
devil in Salem Village, it was the Rev. Mr. Parris. Queer thing about that
Salem business: an ancestor of mine, one John Aldcn —not the character in
Longfellow’s poem—was arrested in that same time and accused of being in
league with the devil, but emulated the example of three Tyrian brethren
and made his escape.”

Mr. Quinn, in his ‘‘Servants of Satan” series, has been fair to all parties
to that dark business—even to the Rev. Mr. Parris.

E. L. Middleton, of Los Angeles, writes to The Eyrie:

‘‘Occasionally some other magazine comes out with a pretty good ‘spirit’
story, but none of these excels some of those in Weird Tales. ‘The House of
Dust’ in the November issue is particularly attractive, as well as is ‘The Ma¬
lignant Entity’ in the Anniversary Number. Your magazine is creating a
distinct type of literature which will last. In my opinion these stories of
terror and fear are not unwholesome, but, rather, quicken the imagination to
a desirable degree, and in no way do they have the deteriorating influence of
the sex stories which are published in great numbers, nor do they have a
tendency to cause crime as do the crime thrillers in print and in the pictures.

“There seems to be one great remaining field of literature which has
not yet been covered, and which some author might cover some time by a
story in Weird Tales. I refer to that section of Biblical prophecy which deals
with the end of the world and its millennium, more particularly known to
Bible students as ‘The Great Tribulation.’ From various verses in the Bible,
a rather elaborate program of the ‘Time of the End’ is built up, telling how
the Devil, in the guise of some great religious power, shall rule the world
for seven years and shall be destroyed finally when the millennium is ushered
in. A story dealing with this period could be written without being sectarian
or religious or without quoting Scripture, and make a good story—nothing more
—and not try to prove any particular prophecy, but rather deal with a pos¬
sible future destiny of the human race.”

We refer this last suggestion to our author friends. Weird Tales would
gladly consider such a story, but it would have to be well written, absorbingly
interesting, and it must not offend religious feeling. That excellent magazine,
“Romance” (unfortunately it is no longer printed), had the courage to print
a weird tale dealing with the crucifixion, and called “The Doomsday Enve¬
lope”; and Weird Tales will shortly print a remarkable story, reverently
told by Arthur J. Burks, called “When the Graves Were Opened”, based on
the statement in the New Testament that the graves were opened and the
dead went immediately into the city. It tells what the dead did when they
went into Jerusalem.

The readers’ favorite story in the December issue was “Death-Waters,”
by Frank Belknap Long, Jr. This story was closely pressed for first honors
by “The Death Clinic,” by Otto E. A. Schmidt; “The Valley of Teehee-
men,” by Arthur Thatcher; “The Earth Girl,” by Carroll K. Michener,
and “A Hand From the Deep,” by Romeo Poole. The votes for favorite
story were widely distributed; there was hardly a single story in the issue
that did not draw one or more votes for first choice.

What is your favorite story in the present issue f Send your choice
in to The Eyrie, Weird Tales, 317 Baldwin Building, Indianapolis, Ind.
It is only by finding out what stories you, the readers, like, that we are able
to know what kind to publish for you in the future.

WEIRD TALES

167

Suppose You Believed in
Witches!

THE

Salem Horror

By SEABURY QUINN

: 317 BaldwtaBldg./Indianapolis, Ind.

: Uie to WEmD TALES - ’■*

8 * 84 -

168

WEIRD TALES

Whispering Tunnels

(Continued from Page 2i)

eray’s bands an hour after he had
bred the magazine.

“For the first time, messieurs,”
said the colonel, “the truth is known.
DeBray must have wrecked the flood¬
gate control days before he fired the
magazine. He would have blown up
the magazine regardless of whether
Chaumon had discovered his treach¬
ery, as part of his bargain to aid the
enemy. As it was, he saw a chance
to carry out his plan and at the same
time destroy, as he thought, the evi¬
dence. I think you will agree with me
that the statement ‘dead men tell no
tales’ is one of the most ridiculous

The colonel reached swiftly for pen
and ink, and wrote out a telegram.
It was coded in ciphers, known only to
the French army, but when translated
it called for the arrest of DeBray 1

“My friends,” said “Papa” Dupin
to the Americans, “you have served
France well. She owes you an infinite
debt of gratitude that she can never
repay. But as long as either of you
live, there is no favor too great to ask
of the French military service, which
will ever be at your disposal. Won’t
you remain a while longer, as my
guests, now that you have cleared the
name of Jules Chaumon?”

The Americans thanked the colonel,
but explained that they must return
to Paris without further delay. The
commandant shook his head disap¬
provingly, but embraced them both as
they left his office. Outside, in the
corridor, Cresson experienced a feel¬
ing of relief over the prospect of leav¬
ing behind this labyrinth of mystery
and death. He shivered as he took a
long look inside of the haunted cham¬
ber.

“Our discoveries show us why
there happened to be a number of ap¬
paritions in this room simultaneous¬
ly,” said Littlejohn, sagely. “The
anteroom in olden days must have
been an altar for devil worship, for
the strongest forces issued there. That
trap-door leading to the tunnels must,
indeed, hold a dreadful nistory. There
are hundreds of entities that still rove
the distant tunnels, but so far as Vaux
is concerned, the malignant curse is
gone. The fort was built over ancient,
underground dungeons, where hun¬
dreds were put to torture for sorcery
up to a hundred y’ears ago. Many
were the curses placed upon the whole
region, and some, as you have seen,
are still active.”

“Don’t talk about it, doctor,”
pleaded the younger man. “I’m get¬
ting all unnerved. Let’s get out of
these hills.”

Littlejohn laughed, noticing Cres¬
son ’s expression of anxiety.

“Do you know what day this is?”
asked the scientist

“September seventh, of course,”
replied Cresson.

He started suddenly.

“The day Audrey is to marry De¬
Bray! How could I have forgotten
it?”

He fairly groaned as he snatched
his watch from his pocket.

“Three o’clock!” he exclaimed dis¬
mally. “And the wedding is at 7!
Oh, if I could get to Paris in time! I
can’t even send her a telegram, for it
would be held up by the censors until
too late.”

“You do love her, don’t you, my
boy?” asked Littlejohn, his eyes
twinkling with humor and under¬
standing.

Cresson started with astonishment,
as his eyes met those of his friend.

“How did you know, doctor?’’ he
gasped.

“Knew it the day after you called,
in Paris,” laughed Littlejohn. “You
gave yourself away. Little things,
you know. All my life I have been
an observer.”

He walked away mysteriously,
leaving the southerner in a study of
dejection. Ten minutes later the
scientist returned, rubbing his hands
together briskly.

“Get ready for a fast trip to
Paris!” he exclaimed.

“Quick trip? Why, doctor, how?”
asked the puzzled southerner.

“Airplane, of course, numskull!”
answered Littlejohn, waggishly. “An
automobile will call here for you in
ten minutes. Colonel Dupin has ar¬
ranged everything. A plane awaits
you at Gallieni Field!”

T WO hours later, Cresson was has¬
tening to Madame Chaumon’s
home in the Latin Quarter. He ar¬
rived just as the finishing touches
were being made to Audrey’s bridal
costume, ten minutes before going to
the church, where the ceremony was
to be performed. It was most difficult
for Cresson to break the news, and
for a full two minutes he could not
respond to the joyous greeting of the
two women. But it was his duty, and
glossing over the most harrowing de¬
tails of the story, he told it from be¬
ginning to end.

Madame Chaumon exhibited re¬
markable control, but Audrey, who
was worn with the ordeal of awaiting
marriage with the man she despised,
was less able to bear up. She swooned,
pale as death, as Cresson concluded
his narrative. She recovered con¬
sciousness in the southerner’s arms,
her violet eyes widening, as he pil¬
lowed her head of glorious gold on his

In one mad moment, Cresson threw
restraint to the winds and pressed his

170

WEIRD TALES

lips to hers in a divine moment of
bliss. Her arms stole around his neck,
and joy surged within him as he felt
his kisses being returned. It seemed
as if the world stood still to listen to
the caroling of a million joyous bird
throats.

“Oh, Audrey,” he breathed, "I
love you! Can’t you see? My happi¬
ness is in your hands; my future is
yours. Be my wife, dear. Come to
America with me—to Louisiana,
where your mother and you will know
no sorrow again. Forget the past.
Awaiting you is the home of my fore¬
fathers. It is a great house. It is
cheerful, beautiful, restful. The trees
and landscape will ever remind you
of La Belle France. Have you ever
heard of New Orleans, its French
patois, its quaintness and charm ? Say
you will, dear!”

"On condition,” she replied, her
eyes shyly seeking his, “that I shall
spend six months of every year in
your beautiful Louisiana, and the
other six months in La Belle France—
always with you. You do not know,
Miles, dear, what it means to a
Frenchwoman to be exiled, forever,
from her native land. Such a fate
would be unthinkable!”

She nestled in his arms.

“Agreed!” Cresson shouted, hap¬
pily. “That is a wonderful plan.”

He lost no time in seeking Madame
Chaumon’s consent, which she gave,
with the mingled tears of her bless¬
ing. The evening seemed to fly, and
the joyous little dinner in a cafe near
by, in honor of the event, seemed over
in a flash.

I N THE small hours of the morning
Cresson danced forth from the lift
seemingly on air. He came face to
face with Dr. Littlejohn in the en-

“Why, doctor,” exclaimed the
younger man, “how did you reach
Paris so quickly!”

His astonishment was apparent.

'' Congratulations, son, ’ ’ said Little¬
john, stretching out his hand. “You
needn’t tell me—I know! I followed
you by a fast train, and here I am.”

"I owe everything to you, doctor,”
began Cresson gratefully. “You’re
the greatest, finest—.”

"Oh, forget that,” laughed Little¬
john. “ It was an experience to glad¬
den the heart of any spook hunter in
existence. And, as sailors say, you
may lay to that!”

His face grew grave.

“Have you heard!” he queried,
quietly.

“About DeBray, you mean!”
asked Cresson.

“Yes,” said the doctor. “He was
seized by gendarmes while dressing
for his wedding. He put up a furious
struggle, and for a time the officers
had their hands full. He was raging
and defiant in the Palais de la Justice,
until confronted with the evidence. In
the end, he signed a lengthy confes¬
sion.

“DeBray feared death, after Chau¬
mon’s discovery of his treachery. He
waited for an opportunity to shoot
the young Frenchman in the back,
but this did not come. He had al¬
ready wrecked the floodgate machin¬
ery and had laid wires to blow up the
magazine, and his opportunity to ef¬
fect a double stroke came when Chau-
mon and the thirty-three men were
sent to the vault during the attack.
The death of Major Callan in the
final rush of the enemy left DeBray
in possession of the secret of Chau¬
mon’s whereabouts. None, except the
Alsatian, knew that the anteroom pas¬
sage existed, and he slipped there,

WEIRD TALES

m

during a lull, to send part of the fort
to destruction with his blasting ma¬
chine. He resumed his post in the
confusion that followed; no one was
the wiser, save those buried beneath
the wreckage. Dying men alone knew
that his act had cost them their lives
and France its fortress.

“It was dramatic, Cresson. I
reached the Palais just as DeBray,
coolly smoking a cigarette, was ad¬
dressing his captors.

“ ‘Messieurs,’ he said,, ‘after all,
what matters another victim to Ma
dame Guillotine f The world goes on
as usual, does it not? My death
leaves but one more shade to curse it,
and the tunnels of Verdun!’

“ DeBray’s hearers were all so dum-
founded by his cold-blooded confes¬
sion that for a moment they relaxed
vigilance. It was the traitor’s oppor¬
tunity. Before any one could stay
him, the Alsatian had snatched a pis¬
tol from the holster of a guard, and
was springing to the center of the
room. He pressed the weapon’s muz¬
zle to his temple. The guards ran for¬
ward in a confused mass, but too late.
The pistol cracked, and DeBray
crashed to the flags, dead by his own

Cresson shook his head slowly, but
said nothing. Memories of Jules Chau-
mon trooped across his vision in a
dim procession; memories of the
Vosges; memories of Verdun; Paris
of war-time, and Paris of today. Dr.
Littlejohn, observing his silence, un¬
derstood. He pressed the younger
man’s arm, and bade him good-night.

Walking slowly toward his quar¬
ters, Cresson heard, far down the
boulevard, the cry of “extras” being
vended by newsboys of the Quarter.

172

WEIRD TALES

That White Superiority

By GEORGE BALLARD BOWERS

WEIRD TALES

173

Crossed Lines

(Continued from Page Z2)
with my feet, hunched my body,
moved slightly. Enough! I had it.

Summoning every ounce of my re¬
maining strength, I swung it at his
head. I must have lost consciousness
even before the blow landed, for I
have no recollection of the completion
of the stroke.

How much later it was that con¬
sciousness returned, I never knew. It
was with some difficulty that I opened
my eyes. The lids seemed gummed
together. It was still dark. I put
my hand to my face and found it wet,
or rather sticky. That must mean
blood. My head ached excruciating¬
ly. His body was yet interlocked
with mine and I could feel his labored
breathing. So, he was still alive and
reviving. I must look to myself. I
felt about me in the darkness for my
weapon, and not finding it I arose to
my feet. He likewise arose. He was
coming after me again. Once more,
I felt his fingers at my throat, but at
their touch a thrill of surprize ran
through me. Just why, I was unable
to say, but in the touch of those un¬
seen hands there was something star¬
tlingly different from what I had ex¬
pected. I grappled with him and
hurled him bodily across the room,
heard a chair turn over, and his body
come with a thud against the wall.

Groping, I found the doorway lead¬
ing to the adjoining room, and
bumped my head against the lintel
above. The doorway was low, but
that had never happened before. How
strange familiar surroundings seem
in the dark! I reached around the
door jamb, touched the button, and
switched on the light.

I looked at my hand, one finger yet
resting on the button, and under-

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174

WEIRD TALES

standing came to me. I looked, and
elation welled up in me; for now I
knew what had happened, even be¬
fore, following the direction of the
light streaming through the open
door, I saw his small, mean figure
crouching against the wall. He, too,
saw and knew that during that second
period, while we lay devoid of con¬
sciousness, that which had happened
the first time had been undone. Each
had come into his own again.

His jaw dropped and his eyes
bulged with terror. Then he began
glancing this way and that, swallow¬
ing and moistening his lips with his
tongue. I laughed, and there was the
lust of slaughter in the laugh. All
the days and weeks of misery and per¬
secution at his hands it was now in
my power to avenge. I approached
him slowly and deliberately, and he
seemed positively to shrivel with ter¬
ror. I can well imagine what he must
have seen in my face, for in that mo¬
ment it was my intention to tear him
limb from limb.

It brings a cold sweat upon me
to this day, when I think back upon
that moment. Standing on the very
threshold of life restored, with an ap¬
preciation such as I had never pos¬
sessed before of all its glorious oppor¬
tunities, how close I was to ruining
all by the perpetration of a crime
whose penalty would have been my
own life!

Thank God! The blood lust passed
from me in time. In this quaking
wretch I saw the image of what I had
been but a little while since. I pitied
his terror—or was it merely the re¬
turn of my old contempt for others
weaker than myself? At all events,
I stood from his path and pointed
toward the outer door. With a rat¬
like squeak, suggestive of mingled
fear and relief, he scuttled to the door
and passed through it, out of my life

CUCH was the story told me by my
^ fellow traveler in the smoking car
of the train as we neared Chicago.
My friend, Horace Chillingworth,
who, like myself, had listened to the
stranger’s narrative, stroked his chin
thoughtfully.

“And the scar—the scar above
your temple!” Chillingworth asked

“It is the mark of the blow by
which I felled the scoundrel who had
usurped my body,” he answered.

“Englewood!” the conductor had
called. It was here that we were to
leave the train. We had waited near¬
ly too long and there was no time to

We walked down through the sta¬
tion to the street level. My compan¬
ion seemed deep in thought. The
sound of the train, bearing with it
our late fellow occupant of the smok¬
er, had died away in the distance and
we were in front of the house where
Chillingworth lives, before either of

“Will you come up to my room for
a moment?” he then asked. “I want
to show you something in my vast col¬
lection of newspaper and magazine
clippings. ’ ’

I agreed.

Selecting a cardboard letter-file, he
produced from it a clipping and
handed it to me. This is what I read:

There is something of a mystery sur¬
rounding the severance of Dr. Theophilus

casion for anything of the kind, maintain a
discreet reticence as to the events leading
up to it. Rumor will not down that the
doctor’s resignation was not entirely volun¬
tary and connects it with certain ex peri-

WEIRD TALES

other eminent members of his own profes-
I looked at Chillingworth, interrog-

“Try this one,” he said, handing
me another clipping.

It was rather a long article, and
with a pencil he marked a part of it,
neither at the beginning nor the end.
This was the portion he had marked:

Every physical body has a so-called astral
counterpart. Ordinarily its position coin¬
cides with the physical body, in a manner

with a bone which is composed of both ani¬
mal and mineral matter. Either can be re¬
moved and the bone retain its original size
and shape. Though the weight of the astral
body is very small according to physical

of the matter composing it, it is a ponder-

apparatus has registered a slight loss of
weight in a body, occurring at the moment

The astral body is the seat of conscious-

about, swaying gently in the air currents.
It is too ethereal to be visible ordinarily to
the physical eye, but under favorable cir¬
cumstances has been photographed.

It is connected with the physical body by
a sort of cord, and according to occult tradi-

to which it belongs would die.

“You think— t” I gasped.

“That the lines somehow got
crossed and the astral and physical
bodies recombined wrong,” he re¬
plied. “What part, if any, Dr. Cam¬
eroon played in the transaction is mat¬
ter for speculation.”

“But—my dear fellow!—why, that
is preposterous!”

“Perhaps,” said Chillingworth.

‘ ‘ Perhaps it is. But you must remem¬
ber that our knowledge of life and its
possibilities is less than one trillionth
of one per cent.”

WEIRD TALES

The Tomb-Dweller

(Continued from Page 44;

WEIRD TALES

177

Into the Fourth

(Continued from Page 48)
entered the very home of chaos. A
great wind buffeted me and with it
came eery faces that peered and gib¬
bered into my own. Trailing arms,
like tentacles, clutched at me, slith¬
ered across my body; dank hair
brushed my face like seaweed. Pre¬
hensile fingers strove to seize me, ten¬
tatively. I was in the midst of a great
throng of disorganized, or half-organ¬
ized forces; half human, yet possess¬
ing no suggestion of human compan¬
ionship. Horror overcame me. I bent
my head, covered my face with my
arms and blundered forward.

“I succeeded in turning, and
dashed madly in what seemed the di¬
rection whence I had come. And in
a moment that was an eternity I fell,
fell through ages of time, through in¬
terminable space, and found myself
lying inert, supine, upon the floor of
Carrington’s study.

“For a time I lay staring with un¬
seeing eyes, until at last my straying
mind grew calmer and I rose to my
feet to see once more the familiar
things of my own life. Familiar* Yes
and no. Everything seemed reversed.
The hands of a clock on the desk ran
backward; the door by which I had
entered the study was now at the op¬
posite end of the room, and when I
essayed to walk, I found that I must
walk backward. I thought I spoke in
a low tone—I found myself shrieking.
It was strange that the occupants of
the house failed to hear me. A glim¬
mering of the truth entered my brain
and I experimented elementally. I
spelled the word ‘cat’—but I spelled
it ‘tac’, with the letters running back¬
ward as in a mirror. I crossed the
room, averting my gaze from that now
hateful aperture behind which, or
within which, such horrors lay. Leav¬
ing the room, I proceeded down the
corridor and into what was evidently
a sort of lumber room, and there I

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WEIRD TALES

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WEIRD TALES

Wings of Power

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182

WEIRD TALES

crossed to the table on which stood the
wishing machine, and picked up what
looked like a well-balanced magnifying
glass. It was a new glass, and the
frame and handle were of a metal
that had a strange, mercurial luster,
but Felix’s interest was at first per¬
functory.

"See, my friend, I made it my¬
self,” said Maquarri. “Do you see
nothing peculiar about the frame and
the handle?”

Felix bent over to examine it more
closely. He rubbed a finger testingly
over the metal, and it seemed to him
that there came from it the faintest
phosphorescent emanation.

“It’s not—surely it’s not zodium,
this handle?”

Maquarri nodded, his expression
gloating and triumphant.

“It is zodium. I fashioned it my¬
self. The best of lenses, you under¬
stand, but while you take your stand
here at the wishing machine, I shall
seek out Lord Hubert and ask him to
examine a few new specimens with
this new and more powerful glass.”

Felix obviously waited for a more
complete unfolding of the plot, and
Maquarri, well pleased, continued.

“I shall pretend I am about to
write a monograph on the Yucca
moth, and I want him to tell me if I
have left out anything of importance.
You, Felix, shall stay here meanwhile
at the wishing machine and influence
his mind to tell me the treasure’s hid¬
ing place.”

“It is time. Maestro. I doubt that
we have many days more. I overheard
this morning that Lord Hubert
plans to go to St. John’s on the
afternoon boat with his architect. The
Charing bankers are there, and it may
well be that he is arranging to convert
the gold and jewels into currency for
his million dollar museum.”

Professor Kurt Maquarri sought
out Lord Hubert Charing in his
long study at the back of Hie house,

under the slant of the hurricane roof.
Lord Hubert was flattered that the
professor should ask his advice. He
was an acknowledged authority on the
Yucca moth, which was somewhat out¬
side Lord Hubert ’s field, and he bent
over the specimen eagerly.

Maquarri watched him keenly. At
first the Englishman’s thought was
all for the specimen under the glass,
but after a moment his hold on the
handle tightened, and it was seen to
give forth the faintest phosphorescent
emanation. Lord Hubert’s eyes took
on an unseeing stare as the hunchback
spoke softly to him.

“The treasure—the treasure—the
gold and jewels that, shall build your
million dollar museum, and put to
good uses at last the bottomless chest
of the Charings, show it to me,” whis¬
pered the professor.

A strange, gloating smile crept over
the features of the older man. He
motioned to Maquarri, and started in
a stealthy tread toward the wall at
the rear of the study, looking craftily
over his shoulder at each step to see
that the other followed. Maquarri’s
eyes glinted. At last—at last—he was
on the way to grasping by means of
his discovery the first of the world’s
great fortunes which he meant to have

Lord Hubert stood close to the wall
now; his long fingers padded across
the paneling; they caressed the line of
the beading that ran around the
panel, and counted the rosary from
the top. One, two, three, four beads,
and his lordship stopped. His unsee¬
ing eyes fixed Maquarri as he held a
long index finger firmly against the
fourth bead.

The hunchback held his breath, in¬
clining his head with the shadow of a
nod. Lord Hubert turned again with
a gloating smile to the panel, but at
that moment there came a knocking
at the study door.

Alert on the instant, Maquarri
grasped Lord Hubert’s hand. The lat-

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TOBACCO

A Bizarre Tale of a Mummy, An Egyptian
Goddess, and a Terrifying Adventure
Among the Grand Ruins of Thebes

The Figure of Anubis

By EDWARD PODOLSKY

S OFT beams of mellow light
played about the shaded lamp
on the long mahogany table.
Like exquisitely fashioned swords of
gold, they pierced the gray twilight
that crept in from the silent street.
In a corner of the big room, delicate
wreaths of amethyst smoke rose into
the air, and two men, comfortably
seated in luxuriously upholstered
Morris chairs, gazed through this
with leisurely contentment.

“You promised to tell me of your
strange adventure tonight, Rich-

The man addressed started up
from his comfortable position.
“Yes,” he answered softly.

The t wilight had begun to deepen,
and the beams from the shaded lamp
appeared more mellow in the deep¬
ening gray. Weird and grotesquely
lengthened shadows flitted across
the somber walls. Wreaths of ame¬
thyst smoke still rose in fantastic
coils to the ceiling. Richard Held,
who had promised to tell the strange
tale, was leaning forward. His thin
face was stamped with eager excite¬
ment. He got rid of his cigar, and
for a moment or two he flinched
nervously in his chair. Then he com¬
posed himself, and in a soft voice,
mellowed by the great sorrow he
had been through, he began to re¬
count his tale:

“When my sweetheart, dear little
Fleurette, died last year, after a brief

illness, I was so overcome with grief
that my health was disastrously af¬
fected. For I was a man of very
sensitive temperament and easily sus¬
ceptible to adverse conditions, and
this misfortune pained me keenly.
Within two weeks my mental facul¬
ties were so affected by the tragedy
that a prominent psychiatrist in¬
formed my friends that my reason
would surely be gone unless some¬
thing were done to divert me from
my grief.

“It is needless to say that I was
compelled to retire temporarily from
my business and to be confined with¬
in my home. There I spent the
greater part of the day in my room,
where I sat resignedly, the silence
deep about me and my soul weighed
down with sorrow. Spells of melan¬
cholia eame upon me. Invariably,
after these passed, I would see her
face peering out from a darkened
corner of the room. And her features
were always in an angelic smile,
which put a great comfort into my
soul. Then there were times when
I became too wearied by the great
monotony of it all and fell into a
peaceful slumber. Then I would hear
her sweet voice again and see her
lovely face—but they were faint, al¬
ways faint. And when I began to
wonder at their strange faintness, I
awoke. Then the sad realization
came upon me, and sometimes I

188

WEIRD TALES

and I was recruited into the rank of
a supervisor.

‘ ‘ Engrossed deeply in this new and
fascinating work, I completely forgot
my sorrow. My health returned in
considerable measure, and my men¬
tality was sharpened. I had no time
to muse over bygone griefs, for my
entire day was devoted to excavation
work, and my entire night to pleas¬
ant and refreshing sleep. Things
went on in this fashion for several
weeks; I was living life anew, and I
was content and happy.

“/"'vNE DAY the heat had been par-
ticularly fierce, and I was in¬
disposed to join the ranks of the ex¬
cavators. Moreover, I was seized with
a slight fever which confined me to
my bed. And that day, as I lay abed
in the silence of the little room, old
thoughts and memories began to
come back. Oh, how hard I tried to
drive those maddening visions from
my brain! But to what futile avail!

“That night my old sadness re¬
turned to me. Fain would I sleep,
but my depression weighed too
heavily upon me. Again that strange
daze of old, born of great sorrow,
entered my brain. I became restless.
I yearned to be about, to walk and
breathe in the cool air of the blissful
night. I jumped out of bed, donned
a light white suit, and went into the
silent night.

“From out of the silvery billows of
the Nile, in the purple distance, the
moon was slowly rising. A heavy
and impressive silence lay over the
land. Toward the north reposed
Thebes—Thebes, which contained the
ruins of an ancient civilization. The
night was cool and its beauty great,
and within me was the desire to
walk, to flee from my sorrow into the
somber mystery of the night-hued
north. So I turned my steps toward
Thebes.

“I do not know how long I walked,
for I was lost in a deep revery during
the entire journey. However, it
seemed to have consumed but little
time, for soon I came in sight of the
city. On the horizon I saw the grand
ruins of Thebes loom up into the
slowly changing sky.

“When I arrived at Thebes the last
streak of darkness had gone, and the
skies became aflame with the fierce
color of the early dawn. The air was
calm, and the ruins of the ancient
city rose with a strange melancholy
into the fiery light. Nowhere was a
living thing visible, and I was alone
in the archaic city, which was as si¬
lent as the sheeted dead.

“The long walk to Thebes had in a
measure dispelled my feeling of de¬
pression, and having returned, in a
degree, to my normal state, I was
seized with a desire to explore the si¬
lent ruins. So in the fiery light of
the early morning I began to walk
among the grand ruins of Thebes.

“I had been walking about for
quite a while, absorbed in the ro¬
mance of an ancient world, when my
feet caught against a mutilated
statue of Anubis lying prostrate on
several fragments of a marble col¬
umn. The next instant I had fallen
to the ground. When I rose and
looked about me confusedly, I ob¬
served an enormous, lidless sar¬
cophagus lying several feet away
from where I stood. My heart beat
with excitement at this sight, for I
felt that I had discovered something
of great value. Now I was in a posi¬
tion to repay Dr. Brenner for his
great kindness. The sarcophagus was
built of dull yellow basalt, and it
contained a mummy that had in no
way suffered disturbance.

“I dragged my find into a dark¬
ened corner of the ruins and repaired
hastily to Dr. Brenner to inform him
of my good fortune. He assigned

two men to me, and late in the after-

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190

WEIRD TALES

tiful and lithe. The thumbs were
slender, and the fingers, each of
which was separately bandaged,
were long and tapering. The neck
was full, and the chin displayed that
firmness which is seen only in very
beautiful women. While I was
raptly admiring the beauty of the
long departed princess, the glow on
the face grew whiter, and the imita¬
tion lips, brows, and eyes on the
wrappings grew weirder in the phos¬
phorescent glare.

“Gradually 1 became aware of an
eery stillness. Intermixed with
this was something strangely inde¬
scribable, something that reminded
me of the atmosphere of the cata¬
combs of the primitive Christians.
Fascinated, I continued to gaze at the
mummy, when suddenly from out of
the deathlike stillness came a sob—-
low, weird, gentle. There was some¬
thing uncanny and yet familiar in
that sob. Several minutes dragged
by, and again I heard it—low, weird,

“Was the mummy alive? I
strained my vision to detect any
movements in its limbs. I lay down,
strangely wearied by this uncanny
experience, and I turned my face to
the opposite wall. But some strange
impulse caused me to look back. My
soul became convulsed with fear, and
every fiber in me trembled. The
mummy lived ! Its bosom began to
rise and fall t

“My terror was now supreme. I
wanted to shriek, to scream, to cry
out; but the sounds froze in my
throat. Then out of the awful silence
came that sigh—soft and low. A
tremor ran through the mummy from
head to foot. Then one of its hands
moved, and the fingers clutched the
air convulsively, as if the pain from
awaking from a sleep of twenty-five
centuries was great and unbearable.
Quickly the bandages from the fin¬

gers began to fall away. Still held in
great terror, I lay and watched.
Finally the fingers were free from
their wrappings, and in the phos¬
phorescent glare I beheld them. They
were long and slender, but there was
something about them that struck
me as strangely familiar. They pos¬
sessed an individuality that I had
known somewhere before.

“Gradually the hands moved up¬
ward, and reaching the throat, the
fingers set to work slowly and pain¬
fully to remove the bandages. Soon
I beheld a glimmer of skin as pale as
beautiful marble. The nose was then
unveiled; then the upper lip, ex¬
quisitely and delicately cut; then the
teeth. And among them I saw a gold
tooth—a gleaming gold tooth, newly
fashioned, it seemed, by the hands of
a modern dentist! The uncasing con¬
tinued. The chin became exposed to
view; then the upper part of the
head—hair, long and black and lux¬
uriant—the forehead low and white
—the brows raven black. And the
eyes 1 It was Fleurette!

“I sprang from my bed with a
madness that knew no bounds. Slow¬
ly she was advancing toward me. I
flung out my arms to embrace her,
the woman I loved best in the world.
But something black and hideous
loomed up suddenly before me, and I
fell to the floor.

“For several minutes I lay
stunned and bruised by the sudden
fall. Then I looked up, and there,
bending over and peering into my
eyes, was the fleshless, moldering
face of a foul and barely recogniz¬
able corpse 1 ’ ’

“With a shriek of terror I rolled
back. I glanced at the mummy. It
was lying on the floor, stiff and still,
every bandage in its place; while
standing over it was the figure of
Anubis, lurid and menacing in the
fiery gleams of the early dawn.”

WEIKD TALES

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